


What the Future will Hold

by nlans



Series: Cecily Trevelyan [8]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-05-27 22:48:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 24,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6303202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nlans/pseuds/nlans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the Exalted Council, the Inquisition's future hangs by a thread--along with Cecily Trevelyan's life.</p><p>Meanwhile, in Denerim, Cecily's sister Evie learns that the Viddasala doesn't just have her eyes on Halamshiral.</p><p>Loosely follows the events of the Trespasser DLC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End

It was a familiar scene at Skyhold—four figures standing around the war table, the map of Thedas spread between them. Uncharacteristically, however, the room was silent.

Josephine had opened the meeting by handing them each a copy of a document: an official-looking writ sent from Orlais, stamped with the seal of the Divine’s Exalted Council. She had also handed them two further letters—one bearing the Arl of Redcliffe’s seal, the other from Duke Cyril de Montfort.

Josephine waited patiently for the others to finish reading, although by now they all knew each other so well that she was unlikely to be surprised by their responses.

Commander Cullen perused his copy with a sour look on his handsome features; his expression only grew more irritated as he made his way to the end. The Iron Bull, promoted to spymaster after Divine Victoria’s coronation, looked mildly amused by the wording but not at all surprised by the contents. Inquisitor Cecily Trevelyan was not sure what her own expression looked like. She had known this was brewing, and felt both anxious and slightly relieved that it would now come to a head.

When she was certain they had all read the writ and the letters, Josephine cleared her throat delicately. “As you know, Divine Victoria has worked to placate the Council for some months now. But the political cost becomes greater every day.” She cut off Cullen’s beseeching look with a gentle shake of her head. “I’m afraid there is no avoiding it. We must go to the Exalted Council.”

“Why can’t we go six bloody months without being summoned to Orlais?” Cecily could tell that her husband was trying to keep his tone light, but his genuine outrage was clear—at least to her. “Even I can read between the lines of Duke Cyril’s letter. Aid, cooperation, alliance—pah. Orlais wants the Inquisition under their thumb.”

Josephine nodded. “They do indeed. And yet, Ferelden may be our greater concern. Inquisitor, they would see us disbanded.” Josephine’s gray eyes were serious, her face grim. “Arl Teagan has been making impassioned speeches about the Inquisition’s continued presence in Skyhold, the army he claims is looming on Ferelden’s border.”

“We _are_ on their border,” Bull pointed out, gesturing vaguely at the Ferelden section of the war table map. “And we are kind of intimidating. I can see why they might think we’re looming.” He grinned. “I like to think I loom all by myself.”

Cecily smiled at that. She was the only one who did.

Cullen’s mouth tightened, making his scar stand white against the day-old growth of his beard. “We are a disciplined peacekeeping force with ties to the Chantry, and we have given the Ferelden bannorn no cause for concern. And let’s not forget that two years ago Ferelden needed the Inquisition to evict a pack of magisters from Redcliffe. How Redcliffe’s Arl has the gall to demand that we disband to suit his whim is beyond me.” He slapped his copy of Teagan’s letter down on the war table.

Josephine looked as if she agreed with him, but her natural diplomacy prevented her from saying so. “Unfortunately Teagan’s voice is not one to be taken lightly. I doubt he speaks only for himself in this matter.”

Cecily nodded; from everything she knew, the Arl was one of King Alistair’s most trusted advisors. “And the Arl’s concerns are not unreasonable,” she pointed out. “In fact I—I rather think he’s right.”

Absolute stillness fell over the Council room.

The Iron Bull didn’t bother to hide his surprise; he raised his eyebrow and crossed his arms, the look Cecily had come to think of as his tell-me-more pose. Josephine’s mouth dropped open just a fraction, which meant she was in utter shock. Cecily steeled herself to look over at her husband. Cullen was looking at her as if he’d never seen her before. Shock and anger and hurt each flashed through his eyes; they were replaced by simple bafflement.

“Surely you don’t mean …” he said, shaking his head as if the sentence were too ridiculous to finish.

Cecily took a breath, furious with herself for being so clumsy. She hadn’t meant to bring it up this way. She had thought about the Inquisition’s future ever since Corypheus’s death. She had turned the problem over and over in her head during boring diplomatic parties and quiet moments alone. She had asked people for opinions when she knew she could count on their discretion—Cassandra when she was in Skyhold, Varric via coded letter to Kirkwall, Leliana when they were in Val Royeaux for the wedding. She had even discussed it in hypothetical terms with Cullen and Josie both—although the Inquisition’s chief diplomat and Commander always ended the conversation by laughing and saying that the Inquisition’s last days were surely a long way off.

Each time, she came to the same conclusion: there was still good the Inquisition could do, but it was increasingly outweighed by the risk it posed. With another Divine, a different situation in Ferelden or Orlais, or a different Inquisitor, everything they had built could so easily be used to tear down everything they had fought for. The Inquisition had to lay down its burdens before it became too powerful to disband.

 _Am I being selfish?_ she wondered, not for the first time. Proud as she was of what they’d accomplished, Cecily had found herself with the Inquisition by accident, and had always quietly hoped that one day she would not need to be the Inquisitor any longer. It was different for Cullen and Josie. They had chosen this cause and poured themselves into the Inquisition, heart and soul. If the Inquisition disbanded, Cullen and Josephine would watch all of their hard work—the forces recruited and trained, the alliances painstakingly crafted over months and years of negotiation—dissolve or be dismantled.

Cecily’s heart tore when she thought of Cullen saying goodbye to those under his command, leaving the calling that had given him hope and a purpose after Kirkwall. But he would find a new purpose. Wouldn’t he?

She had been silent too long. “I mean that—that we saved the world. Corypheus is dead. The war between mages and Templars is over. Every rift is closed.” _Is that why the mark … not now, Cecily._ “We were necessary for a time. But are we still needed now? The Inquisition of old laid down their swords when there was peace. I had always thought that was a rather good example.”

“As do we all, Inquisitor,” Josephine said haltingly, still apparently recovering from the shock of having the Inquisitor suggest an end to the Inquisition. “But the political situation in Orlais is hardly stable—what if Gaspard vies for the throne again? And reports from Weisshaupt after Hawke went there are not encouraging; there is something very wrong within the Grey Wardens. Not to mention the fact that Starkhaven still seems determined to create tension in the Free Marches by feuding with Kirkwall, and …”

“And if we keep the Inquisition around just a bit longer every time there’s a political crisis, we’ll never disband.” Cecily’s stomach did a sickened flip at that thought. “I’m not suggesting that we close up shop tomorrow. We can’t just turn out thousands of soldiers on a week’s notice, or Ferelden will be flooded with mercenaries—no offense, Bull.”

“None taken.”

“Some of our infrastructure should be transferred to the Chantry; some of the keeps will need to be returned to Ferelden and Orlesian control. We’ll need time to make arrangements for severance pay, and there should be pensions for those who were injured in our service. But I think we should consider telling the Exalted Council that we’ve a plan in place to dismantle the Inquisition within a year. Perhaps eighteen months.” Cecily swallowed hard and waited for the response.

Cullen and Josephine exchanged a look. “I … well. It is certainly a _bold_ thought. This will need further discussion, yes?” the ambassador said brightly. “I can have our people draw up some potential plans for—for doing what you suggest.”

Cecily noticed that Josephine did not say the word _disband_. Nor did she offer to draw up those plans herself.

“Yes. We’ll need to talk about this more.” Cullen’s voice was brittle and icy; he would not meet Cecily’s eye.

Bull cleared his throat. “Well, I liked the plan. Was I the only one who liked the plan?”

Cullen’s gaze snapped to the Iron Bull; he glared at the other man. “This isn’t a joke.”

“And I’m not joking. The boss is right.” Bull shrugged. “We’ve been saying all along that the Inquisition is a temporary thing, a way to deal with an emergency. Well, we killed that Vint bastard over two years ago and did a damn good job tidying up the aftermath. Sure, there’s still shit that needs to be fixed, but it’s not the kind of shit that needs a divine Herald and her big scary personal army. If not now, when?”

Cecily nodded eagerly. “Cullen, Josephine, if we keep trying to be the solution to everyone’s problems, before we know it we won’t be able to disband without sending Thedas into chaos. Please think about it.”

“Of course, your Worship.” Josephine inclined her head gracefully, every inch the diplomat.

Cullen let out a sarcastic half-laugh. “Indeed. I can’t imagine how I’ll think of anything else.”


	2. The Inquisitor and the Commander

The door to their bedroom had barely clicked shut before Cullen spoke.

“How long had you been planning to do that?”

The Commander’s voice was quiet and even; he would have sounded calm to anyone else. Cecily knew better. She had to force herself to meet his gaze. She felt certain she was right about the Inquisition and its future, but Maker, she had handled things so badly in the War Room.

“Nothing is settled yet,” she began. She crossed to her favorite chair and rested her hand on its back, tilting her head hopefully towards his usual seat, inviting him to sit by the fireplace with her.

The Commander remained standing. “Don’t try to placate me with nonsense, Cecy.” His jaw tightened. “If the Inquisitor says the Inquisition is over, it’s over. And you’ve clearly made up your mind about it—without ever discussing it with the rest of us.”

“I did!” Cecily protested, her hand tightening on the back of her chair. “We’ve talked about what the Inquisition’s forces would do if we disbanded, Josie and I have discussed how to handle what’s left in our coffers …”

“Yes, but never once did you say ‘Cullen, I want to dismantle the entire Inquisition, what do you think?’” He took in a deep breath, clearly trying to hold on to his temper. “Did you even _care_ what I thought?”

“Of course I do!” Cecily’s throat constricted. “I know how hard you’ve worked—”

“ _We. We_ ’ve worked to build this,” Cullen interrupted. His face was tight with stress and barely contained anger. “And without it, the mage-Templar war would still be raging—worse, Corypheus might have destroyed us all. We are a force for _good,_ Cecy. And now you want to take us apart—for what? Because one Arl seems to dislike us?”

“Because it’s time _,_ Cullen. Did you think the Inquisition would be— _should_ be around forever?” Cecily moved from her chair and took a step towards her husband. She reached a hand out for him, hoping to offer comfort, or at least reassurance. He took a tiny step away. The movement was almost imperceptible but it tore at her heart nonetheless.

“If we don’t do this now we may never have another chance to do it,” she finished, her hand falling to her side.

“And why exactly would that be so terrible?” Cullen asked, his forehead crinkled in bafflement. “Just because the last Inquisition disbanded doesn’t mean we ought to do the same. So long as you lead us, we will continue to be a boon to this world. Why destroy something that has the power to benefit so many?”

Was it Cecily’s imagination, or did the mark’s power flicker in that moment?

“Because I might not always be around to lead us,” she burst out, clenching her left hand tight.

“What are you talking about?” Cullen snapped. “Cecy, you—you’re not thinking of _quitting_?”

Cecily hadn’t thought of it as quitting, though she supposed it must look that way to her duty-minded husband. “I would never leave the Inquisition while it still existed. But I do—I think about what life will be like when I am no longer the Inquisitor. I do more than think about it. I look forward to it—to just being Cecily again.”

The mark’s power _did_ flicker, that time. Somewhere deep in her mind, a voice chuckled, sounding remarkably like the fear demon she’d faced at Adamant.

_And how much time do you think the anchor will give you to enjoy that rosy future, Just Cecily?_

Cullen stared at her, stunned. Cecily felt tears gathering in her throat and swallowed hard. “Cullen, I do think disbanding the Inquisition is the right choice for Thedas. But you know I never would have chosen this for myself. And what happens if someone else becomes the Inquisitor? If I become ill, or have an accident, or—”

_Or that lovely mark finally explodes and snuffs your life out with it?_

_I cannot tell him. Not until I am certain. I will not place that burden on him._

Cullen’s face was pale and remote. “So you would take all this apart in order to—to what? Go back to your parents’ estate in Ostwick and spend your days hunting birds and hosting parties? Cecily, how—how could you be so _selfish_?”

The world seemed to stop.

Cold fury filled every fiber of Cecily’s being.

“Selfish? _Selfish?_ Andraste’s fucking flaming tits, _Commander._ ” She wasn’t sure where she’d heard that one; probably from Sera in the middle of a battle.

The next words ran out of her mouth in a torrent, came out almost on top of one another. “Name one time—once!—that I held anything back from the Inquisition. From the moment I woke up after the Conclave I’ve given everything I had. I closed rifts, I fought mages and Templars, I went a year into a nightmare future. I all but laid down my life at Haven!”

Cullen flinched; she’d known he would at the mention of Haven. Cecily was still too furious to regret the deliberate cruelty. Her tirade stormed on.

“And after that, I sat on that bloody throne passing judgment, I soothed the petty complaints of every noble from Starkhaven to Val Royeaux. I dragged my friends all over Thedas closing rifts and fighting Red Templars and wolves and dragons, _eleven dragons_.” She wondered if Cullen could even understand her, as angry as she was. “And yes, now I want to stop. If that makes me selfish, then I am bloody selfish.”

Not even Cecily could read the expression on her husband’s face. “You are determined, then.”

“I suppose I am.” Cecily let out a weary breath. Her anger fled her as suddenly as it had flared, leaving her exhausted and shaking. _I cannot continue this conversation._ “We can discuss it more later, if you like.”

Cullen’s mouth tightened. “Indeed. By your leave, Inquisitor.” He inclined his head to her slightly, a mockery of a bow.

Cecily tilted her chin up and summoned her coldest expression, the one she had used so many times on the Skyhold throne. She met Cullen’s gaze. “No need to depart on my account, Commander. I am on my way out.”

With that, she marched past him and down the stairs. Some of the Inquisition’s people might have greeted her as she passed through the great hall, but she could barely hear them over the roar in her ears. Without a backward glance, the Inquisitor strode out into Skyhold.

 

* * *

 

Purely out of habit, the first place Cecily found herself was the library. It was not until she arrived there that she remembered Dorian was in Tevinter. Or perhaps she had remembered; when she heard Bull’s footsteps above her, pacing around the spymaster’s office, she realized that she desperately wanted to be alone. As quietly as she could, she picked up a slim tome on magical theory—Dorian and Dagna had been pestering her to read it for months—and slipped away.

Her next steps took her to her half-crumbled tower. The day was cloudy, however, and the view did not bring her the same sense of exhilaration and relief as usual. Back down she climbed, back to the courtyard, then down further, into Skyhold’s network of cellars.

She walked through them for a long time, deliberately taking enough twists and turns to get herself lost, then found herself again when she opened the door to the wine cellar. From there she climbed back to the courtyard and was only slightly startled to find that dusk had fallen and Skyhold had gone inside for the night.

Candles flickered in almost every window, and Cecily could see the Inquisition’s people silhouetted against the light, eating or laughing or working. She felt her stomach clench with guilt as she imagined all of those candles dark, all of these people elsewhere.

It was not an easy thing to envision. But ending the Inquisition was still the right choice—wasn’t it?

A single dark window in the distance caught her eye. Cullen’s office was apparently empty; Cecily could count on one hand the number of times that had happened. She felt a surge of guilt as she remembered the details of their fight. She replayed the worst parts in her mind, wondered if they might not have parted in anger if she had said things differently, made her point more clearly.

Probably not. But at least she knew where she could go to be alone for a little while longer.

 

* * *

 

Cullen stood perfectly still until he heard the door slam closed behind Cecily. Then he closed his eyes tight and pinched the bridge of his nose, as if he could shut out their fight along with the sight of the room. “Oh, well done, Rutherford.”

He was still rather angry with his wife for blindsiding him with her plan. She _had_ brought up the question of what the Inquisition’s forces would do after their work came to an end, but always as a casual hypothetical. It had never occurred to Cullen that she thought the Inquisition’s last days were nearly at hand. It wasn’t like Cecy to be so coy about her purpose.

She should have told him she wanted to disband. And Cullen still thought there was a place for the Inquisition, that it was too early to say their work was done. But calling her selfish had been unfair.

_More than unfair._

She was right; ever since the Conclave she had done nothing but work for their cause. Anyone else might have run from Cassandra on that first day, or worse, used the mark and the Inquisition for their own ends. Cecily was not the only one who had worked to build their organization or who had sacrificed for their goals, but as the Inquisitor she carried the heaviest burden. Small wonder she looked forward to a day when she might lay it down.

_And then what would she want to do? Maker’s breath, what would I do?_

Cullen felt a moment of panic when he imagined himself stripped of his purpose, no troops to train, no strategies to plan. He did not like to imagine where he might be now if not for the Inquisition. Would he have become a Red Templar, part of Samson’s ghastly army? Or would he have remained at the shattered Kirkwall Circle, still using lyrium, watching helplessly as the world burned around him?

Without the Inquisition, he never would have met Cecy.

That thought brought Cullen’s panic to a halt. He had told her, once, that he did not know what he would do after the Inquisition—he only knew he wanted to be with her. That hadn’t changed.

_I still don’t think it’s time for us to disband. But whatever comes, I will be at her side._

Cullen thought about going to look for her, to apologize and promise that he would think further on the possibility of disbanding, but he was afraid of what she would think if she returned to the room and found it empty. He sat by the fire, pretended to read a book she had left there, and waited.

Hours passed with no sign of Cecily. Cullen eventually gave up on the book and began pacing the room, tidying their things, straightening furniture that didn’t need to be straightened, doing anything to keep his hands occupied. But once night fell, he was unable to wait any longer. He put out the fire in their room and went in search of his wife.

Normally he would have begun in the library, or knocked on Dorian’s door, but with their friend gone to the Imperium Cullen wasn’t sure where to start his search. The light in the room above his office, however, quickly settled that question.

 _Maker’s breath, was she truly going to spend the night there?_ Annoyance bubbled in Cullen’s chest and he let out an irritated sigh; the fight had been a bad one, by their standards at least, but it was childish of her to vanish and sleep elsewhere, leaving him to wonder and worry. He pushed open the door to his office and tried to tamp down his unhappiness, tried to think of something reasonable to say when he came face to face with her.

His annoyance dissolved the moment he climbed the ladder to his old sleeping quarters. Cecily was propped up on the bed with a book on her lap. Her hands lay limp against the quilt and her head had fallen to one side, mussing her fair hair against the pillow; she clearly hadn’t mean to fall asleep here. Cullen wondered if she, too, had spent most of this afternoon re-reading the same page, trying to comprehend the text when her mind was elsewhere.

Quietly, he bent over her sleeping figure and slid the book from her lap. She stirred. “… Cullen? Oh!”

She took in a sharp, startled breath as her eyes opened wide. “Maker, what time is it?”

“Near midnight,” he said gently, closing the book and sitting on the bed to face her.

“I haven’t fallen asleep reading since I was in the Circle.” She passed her right hand over her face, then met his eyes and went still—as if she’d only just remembered their fight.

Cullen cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Cecy. It was beyond ridiculous of me to call you selfish. I am still not sure I agree that now is the moment to lay down our swords, but—but I promise I will listen.”

“I promise the same. And I’m sorry as well. I should have told you what I was thinking.” Cecily laid her right hand on top of his. Her left hand moved to join it, but then she hesitated and let it fall to the bed, the green light from the anchor shining faintly between her fingers. Cullen felt a flash of puzzlement; it had been a long time since any self-consciousness about the mark had shown itself around him.

“It will be nice to have some time just for ourselves, when you are no longer the Inquisitor,” he admitted with a small half smile, raising her hand to kiss it.

Cecily laughed softly. “I will enjoy that as well.” She cupped his face in her hand and leaned in to brush her lips against his.

Was it Cullen’s imagination, or was there more than a hint of sadness in her eyes?


	3. Diplomacy

“So. What fresh horrors does my schedule hold today? A disputed fence between two bannorns? More fighting over harbor rights? Drunken duels between youngest sons gone awry?” Alistair clapped his hands together in mock eagerness. “Do your worst, Eamon.”

Eamon’s mouth twitched in a faint, tolerant smile. The King made the same joke almost every morning, but Alistair rather thought that Eamon would miss it if he stopped. The two of them had taken to sharing a breakfast at Alistair’s desk so that Eamon could apprise him of the latest news and requests. This particular morning was, like most Denerim mornings, a bit cloudy, but Alistair’s study was north-facing and made the best of the limited light. He liked the room, and had worked very hard to forget Zevran’s many observations on the wisdom—or lack thereof—of a King spending so much time in a place with large, arrow-friendly windows.

Eamon swallowed his bit of toast before he began the briefing. “There’s a letter from my brother in Val Royeaux. He expects the Exalted Council to be underway within days. Naturally, the Orlesian ambassador wants to speak with you at your earliest convenience.”

Alistair sighed. Philippe de Fabron wasn’t awful for an Orlesian, but as far as Alistair was concerned that wasn’t saying much. “Naturally. Though he can hardly expect me to like Orlais’s plan to swallow the Inquisition whole.”

“I believe the official description of their plan is ‘to enter into a formal and mutually beneficial alliance to secure Thedas’s future.’” Eamon shook his head to register his skepticism about that. “I doubt he expects to turn you into a supporter, but he has to tell the Empress that he tried.”

“Try to put him off until we hear from Teagan again. I want to know more about what's happening in Val Royeaux before talking about the Inquisition’s future with Orlais. And speaking of the Inquisition …”

Eamon grimaced. “Indeed. I suppose we ought to discuss our unexpected emissary.”

Since Alistair was alone with Eamon, he could allow himself a puzzled scowl. He was the first to admit that the Inquisition had done a good job with Corypheus, and he was grateful to Leliana for helping out with that irksome assassination attempt two years ago, but there was only so long a King could tolerate a giant army perched on his border without feeling a bit nervous. He didn’t exactly go around yelling “Arl Teagan has my full support!” but he suspected the Inquisition’s deft Ambassador knew it even so.

So he’d expected the Inquisition to send someone to assure him that they were a perfectly _harmless_ giant army. Specifically, he’d expected a serious and dignified person, a decade or two older than himself, sent to deliver slightly patronizing lectures on how much good the Inquisition had done.

Lady Evelyn Trevelyan had shown up on his doorstep instead.

“Who exactly is Lady Evelyn? Some relative of the Inquisitor’s, obviously.”

“Her younger sister.” Eamon shuffled a few papers in front of him, bringing a hastily scrawled dossier of notes to the top. “Perhaps you met her in Val Royeaux?”

Alistair tried to cast his mind back to the Inquisitor’s wedding. He had vague memories of a dark-haired young woman seated at the honor table, but he had mostly been focused on ignoring matchmaking attempts and snide Orlesian remarks. “We probably bowed to each other at some point. What do we know about her?”

“She has acted as a representative for the Inquisition in the Free Marches before, but always as a symbolic guest—the Inquisition’s official face at tourneys and balls. By all accounts she is a charming but rather flighty young woman with a long list of rejected suitors. She may regret that if the Inquisition is disbanded,” Eamon added dryly. “The Trevelyan name will no longer carry the same weight when Lady Cecily ceases to be the Inquisitor.”

Alistair ruthlessly squashed a flash of jealousy at the idea that Cecily Trevelyan might get to rid herself of her cumbersome title. He doubted the Inquisitor felt the same way.

“Perhaps Lady Evelyn doesn’t wish to marry. It has been known to happen.” He of all people was not about to criticize someone for resisting a noble match.

“Or perhaps she and her sister plan for her to catch a grander prize.” Eamon gave Alistair a Very Significant Look. Apparently his desire for Ferelden to have a Queen did not extend to capricious, title-hunting Marcher noblewomen. At least not yet.

Alistair leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers idly on the table, his brow furrowed in thought. _What is the Inquisition up to?_

If Leliana had still been their spymaster, Alistair might have hazarded a guess at their motives—his guess would have most been likely wrong, but he still would have made one. With Leliana installed as Divine Victoria he couldn’t even pretend to have insight. Had they really sent a young, pretty title-hunter to try and repair relations with Ferelden?

“Invite her to dinner,” he said suddenly.

Eamon blinked in terror. “Pardon, your Majesty?”

“Arrange a dinner party, perhaps eight or ten important guests, including yourself and Lady Evelyn. Invite Ambassador de Fabron as well. I’ll be called away on King business during the first course.” Alistair smiled in anticipation of the chance to abandon a formal state dinner. “Then the two of them can annoy each other while you learn what you can from their argument.”

 Eamon raised his eyebrows as he contemplated the idea. “That … is actually a rather good notion.”

 Alistair leaned back in his chair and gave the former Arl an amused smile. “I have been doing this for over a decade, Eamon. You don’t have to sound quite that surprised.”

 

* * *

 

Evie began her first morning in Denerim by borrowing a horse from the King’s stables and going for a long ride outside the city. The head groom chose a beautiful gelding with a calm temperament and impeccable training—the usual mount for a visiting dignitary who intended to do nothing more strenuous than the occasional trot. Evie suspected that the horse was pleased when she let him loose into a full gallop the moment they left the city gates.

Ordinarily she would have begun her day by trying to gather information for the Inquisition, but this week she was little more than a distraction, a cover for Inquisition agents who needed to make contact with sources and comrades in Ferelden’s capital. Evie tried hard not to mind, but if the drawing-room chatter in the Free Marches was any indication, the pressure to disband the Inquisition was increasing. Most assumed that Cecily Trevelyan would fight those efforts tooth and nail, but Evie knew her sister well enough to suspect the contrary. The Inquisition’s opponents might well find an unexpected ally in the Inquisitor.

_This could be the last task I ever perform for the Inquisition._

That thought filled Evie with a sense of quiet melancholy. Before Cecy became the Herald of Andraste, Evie had spent most of her life adrift, trying and failing to find some place in Marcher society where she felt occupied and useful. Her mother often attempted to persuade her that marriage would bring her the sense of purpose she sought—she would have an estate to manage and (eventually) children to care for. None of that sounded awful to Evie, but it didn’t sound particularly appealing either. Certainly nowhere near as interesting as stealing red lyrium artifacts or copying incriminating documents.

 _Perhaps Divine Victoria might have some use for me?_ Evie mused as the horse slowed his gallop. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure she hadn’t lost her Inquisition bodyguard—it would not be the first time.

Fortunately, The Iron Bull had sent an excellent rider to watch over the Inquisitor’s sister. It only took Krem’s horse a few strides to catch up. “If you don’t mind me saying so, my lady, you ride like there’s an entire herd of dragons chasing you. Angry ones.”

“Why, thank you, Krem.” Evie flashed the young Tevinter warrior her most charmed smile. “I do love compliments.”

He chuckled. “Wasn’t exactly a compliment, just a fact. So. Are we headed back? Don’t you have lunch with some big muckity-something back at the palace?”

“It’s tea with the Teyrna of Highever,” Evie said with absolutely no enthusiasm. When Krem raised his eyebrow, she added, “She’s nice enough, but it feels a bit pointless. I’ll say nice things about the Inquisition, she’ll make noncommittal noises about how happy everyone is that the Red Templars are gone and what a good job Cecy did with that, and then we’ll talk about fashion or the weather until it’s polite for us to end the afternoon. That will happen at exactly fourteen minutes past three, in case you were wondering.”

“But there will be cakes, right?” Krem asked wryly, shifting the reins in his hands and squinting towards Denerim.

“I imagine there will be cakes. Want me to sneak a few out?”

“Thanks, but nah. I don’t care much for Ferelden sweets. Or Ferelden cooking in general.” Krem wrinkled his nose. “Ah well. It’s only ten days.”

Belatedly, it occurred to Evie that being her bodyguard on a low-stakes visit to Denerim was probably not the most exciting assignment Krem had ever undertaken, either. “Maybe the Teyrna has an Orlesian cook,” she said hopefully as they neared the city gate.

Krem and Evie rode their horses sedately through the chaotic streets of Denerim, avoiding darting children and would-be pickpockets as they moved through the cobblestone streets. When they reached the palace stables, the young secretary Evie had brought from the Free Marches was waiting for her with barely concealed impatience.

“My lady, there’s an invitation for you!”

Evie bit back a sarcastic remark about how there was _always_ an invitation for her. “Maria, you really don’t need to take the trouble to find me every time someone asks me to tea,” she said gently as she dismounted. She had brought Maria along because she had the sort of warm, trustworthy face and demeanor that seemed to make everyone else spill their secrets, but Maria’s naïve excitement about absolutely everything could be annoying sometimes.

Evie’s lack of enthusiasm did not seem to make an impression on Maria, who all but shoved the paper into Evie’s hands. When Evie got a good look, she realized why—the folded paper bore the King of Ferelden’s seal. She read its contents and then handed the paper to Krem, who looked more than a little curious to see what had caused such a stir.

He frowned with faint disappointment. “Oh. A dinner.”

“Dinner with the _King of Ferelden!_ ” Maria corrected breathlessly.

“Right, which probably means a Ferelden will cook it. My sympathies, Lady Evelyn,” Krem said as he handed the note back.

Evie smothered a laugh; Maria looked so scandalized that she couldn’t bear to giggle. “Thank you, Maria. I will accept, of course. But—see if you can find out who else was invited.”

Maria nodded sagely; it was only prudent to determine if one’s fellow guests were worth the bother, after all, especially if one happened to be an unattached and eligible bachelorette.

Evie’s aim in asking, however, was somewhat different than Maria likely suspected. If the notoriously evasive King of Ferelden was actually holding a dinner, he must have some goal in mind.

_What are you up to, Your Majesty?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm assuming Fergus Cousland would have remarried--anyone want to name the new Teyrna for me? :P


	4. Reunion

“Your quarters, Ambassador.”

The young human pushed open the door to a pleasant guest room and bowed low as Dorian stepped inside. “I trust everything is to your liking?” she asked, hovering at a respectful distance behind his shoulder.

The room was lushly decorated—more like _encrusted_ , really—with Orlesian finery. Carvings and flourishes and embellishments blossomed from every piece of furniture and every scrap of fabric, from the rugs beneath his feet to the half-closed curtains in front of his balcony. The predominant shades in the room were the oak brown of the furniture and the dark red of the bedspread, with gold and yellow accents curling merrily around the edges of everything.

Dorian grinned. “Splendid. I do love Orlesian aesthetics.” As fond as he’d become of the people at the Inquisition, he had to admit it was nice to see something besides stone walls and utilitarian furniture. Cecy’s Marcher practicality, coupled with her years in the Circle, meant that décor was rather far down her list of priorities for Skyhold.

“Very good, sir. The Divine wished you to know that the Inquisition’s first people arrived a short while after you did. The Inquisitor is expected by this afternoon.”

“Thank you. I’ll be on the lookout for them.”

Dorian waited until the Divine’s servant closed the door before he spoke. “Oh, come in. Don’t lurk out there on the balcony where anyone could see you. You’re not exactly easy to miss, you know.”

The balcony door creaked gently as it opened. The Iron Bull’s grin was unrepentant. “I thought it was sort of romantic. Besides, Sera said I need to practice hiding if I want to join the Friends of Red Jenny.”

“ _Fasta vass, amatus._ I left you alone for a month and you tried to join Sera’s mad gang of anarchists?” Dorian feigned an annoyed sigh before crossing the room and sharing an enthusiastic kiss with his lover.

“So. How was it?” Bull asked when the kiss ended. His tone was casual, but Dorian could hear the thread of concern running through the words. As far as Bull was concerned, taking a trip to the Imperium was tantamount to walking straight into a lion’s den wearing pants made of raw steak. Dorian thought he exaggerated. It was more like walking into a lion’s den wearing pants made of _cooked_ steak.

“I … find myself at a loss for words. A rather unfamiliar sensation.” Dorian smoothed his mustache, trying to remember those careful phrases he’d tried to work on after receiving the news, the little speech he’d crafted to break things to everyone easily. Instead, he blurted, “My father is dead. Assassinated, I believe. I’ve only just learned this morning.”

Bull let out a stunned breath and leaned against the wall. “Shit,” he said eloquently. “Any idea who? Or how?”

“The same people who’ve been giving the Imperium our delightful reputation for blood magic and slave murder, I’ve no doubt.” Dorian felt his lip curl of its own accord. “My father had his flaws but those weren’t among them, and he made no secret of his disdain for that set. There used to be a particularly nasty fellow called Danarius—but he vanished a while ago. Even with him gone I still have a strong list of potential murderers.”

“Cowards,” Bull growled. “Figures they’d wait until you left to go after your father.”

Dorian was oddly touched by Bull’s assumption that he would be considered a threat. “That’s the flattering interpretation, I suppose. But this Ambassadorship was Father’s idea. I think—I suspect he knew trouble was brewing, and wanted me well clear of it when it began.”

Bull reached out one long, heavy arm and rested his massive hand on Dorian’s shoulder. Dorian swallowed to try and clear the sudden lump in his throat. “I suppose it’s fitting, that I’ll be defying my father’s last wish.”

Dorian felt his lover’s hand tense. “So you’re going back to the Imperium.”

“After the Council concludes their business, yes. I can’t let them get away with it.” For the first time since the awful news, Dorian felt anger—not just anger, rage. The same selfish fools who had toasted Corypheus had snuffed out his father’s life with no more hesitation than they would feel brushing crumbs off a table.

_He deserved better. And so did I._

He took a deep breath, trying to collect himself enough to continue the conversation. “So first I’m going to find the people who killed him and return the favor. And then—I’ve inherited Father’s seat in the Magisterium. I think … I think, with the right allies, and time, I may be able to set my homeland on a different path. Of course, there will be a lot of people standing in our way, but since they’re the same people who killed my father they won’t be standing there for long.”

“It’ll be dangerous.” Bull’s voice was calm—not a warning, just a statement of fact. Then, unexpectedly, he grinned. “So good thing you’ll have a hulking bodyguard trailing your every move.”

It took Dorian a good three or four seconds to process that statement. His heart leapt, then abruptly fell into his stomach. “ _Amatus_ , no. You can’t. You know that.”

“What, Vints don’t have bodyguards?”

“Not Qunari ones.”

“I’m not –”

“Not even Tal-Vashoth ones,” Dorian added, cutting off Bull’s correction. “The prejudice runs too deep. Learning that a magister hired Tal-Vashoth to do work outside of the Imperium is a minor scandal. You in Minrathous would be a major one.”

Bull crossed his arms and snorted. “Scandal? That’s all you’re worried about?”

“Of course that’s not all I’m worried about!” Dorian snapped. “Half the Magesterium would target you for assassination just on principle. I refuse to lose you that way.”

“And I refuse to lose you because I wasn’t there to watch your back.” Bull’s tone was placid, matter-of-fact, but Dorian could read stubbornness and frustration in the lines of his face.

Desperately, he looked for a different reason. “What about the Inquisition? You’re just going to leave them without a spymaster? I can’t do that to Cecy.”

“Somehow I think the boss can manage,” Bull said dryly. “Besides—well, that’s not mine to tell, not yet. But she’s got plans, if she can sell Cullen on them.”

“So she’s finally going to do it, is she?” Dorian didn’t bother to hide his surprise—or his pleasure. “Good for her.”

Bull shook his head and chuckled. “She told you. Of course she did. I can’t believe you kept it a secret.”

Dorian smiled slightly. Coming from Bull that was a compliment rather than a complaint. “She mentioned wanting to disband. I told her I thought it was an opportune moment. Of course, now that this whole ridiculous Exalted Council business has commenced I almost want her to keep it running to spite everyone.”

“You’re changing the subject,” Bull pointed out.

Dorian sighed. “Yes, I am. But I doubt we’ll settle things here and now. We—if I do what I’m suggesting, it won’t be easy. You and I won’t be easy.”

“No,” Bull agreed. His single eye fixed on Dorian’s face. “It’ll be worth it, though.”


	5. Gifts

There was always a great deal to do when the Inquisition arrived at a new location, even one as organized as the Val Royeaux palace. Rooms had to be allocated; people of appropriate rank had to be notified of the Inquisitor’s arrival; arguments had to be held over where and when Sera would be allowed to shoot her arrows.

Today Cecily left all of that in other hands and all but dashed around the palace, seeking out the far-flung friends who had gathered there to support the Inquisition.

Everyone had news. Thom Rainier was there on behalf of the Grey Wardens and affirmed Josephine’s suspicions that all was not well within their ranks. The conflict between factions had grown increasingly bitter and he predicted, darkly, that Weisshaupt might not be able to keep the order together much longer. Cassandra had made slow but encouraging progress towards rebuilding the Seekers. Vivienne, still flush from the triumph of the Inquisitor’s wedding, was on the verge of reconstructing the Circle of Magi as a rival to Fiona’s College of Enchanters. Cecily had no doubt that when she saw Vivienne next, Madame de Fer would be rechristened as the Grand Enchanter.

The most startling reunion, however, was with Dorian.

“You’re doing _what_?” she gasped.

Dorian smiled faintly; he had clearly expected a less-than-enthusiastic response. “I’m quite sure you heard me.”

An image of Dorian’s life in Tevinter flashed before Cecily’s eyes, filled with snide remarks about his personal life and rivals who would not hesitate to use blood magic against him. The prospect of sending her friend into that future terrified her. “Dorian, you—What about Bull?” she argued.

“We’re … working that out.” Dorian raised an eyebrow at her. “Frankly, he took the news better than you are.”

Cecily felt her stomach sink in disappointment. _If Bull couldn’t talk him out of it, what chance do I stand?_

She continued the attempt anyway. “Dorian, you don’t owe the Imperium anything. You don’t have to give over your life to fix all of their problems!”

She could tell her friend was starting to grow annoyed. “I know I don’t _have_ to, Cecy. I’m choosing to. And you’re a fine person to lecture me! Where do you think I got my new penchant for hopeless causes?”

Cecily stared at him a moment. “You mean me?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes, I mean you!” Dorian scowled at her affectionately. “Most people would have taken one look at Corypheus and started planning their last meal. You raised an army and saved the entire bloody world. So if you can do that, I can at least save my homeland.”

Of the two of them, Cecily thought Dorian had set himself the more difficult task. Corypheus had been one man—a madman, to be sure, with power and an army and a terrifyingly loyal general, but her goal had been clear. Kill Corypheus and the war would end. Dorian had chosen a complicated web of opponents, the result of thousands of years of Tevinter corruption and infighting. She suspected that for every opponent Dorian defeated, he would find five more waiting for their chance to strike.

She opened her mouth to point this out to him. What came out instead was, “Can I help?”

Dorian smiled. “I was hoping you’d ask.” He reached into a pocket, cleverly concealed in his intricate clothing, and pulled out a necklace. “This is for you.”

“Jewelry? Dorian, what will Cullen think?” Cecily’s voice wavered, her weak attempt at humor unable to disguise her scattered emotions.

Dorian, good friend that he was, laughed anyway. “I suspect I will need advice more often than not, and this will let us speak even when I’m in the Imperium.” He dropped the small gem in her hand and closed her fingers around it. “See? You’ll be able to keep me out of trouble even when you’re not there.”

Cecily felt tears welling in her eyes and stepped close to hug her friend. He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her back. “No crying on my clothes, if you please. Silk water-stains badly.”

 

* * *

 

When she and Dorian parted, Cecily knew she ought to seek out Leliana and learn what she might expect when the Exalted Council met the next day. Instead, she set out on a solitary walk around the palace to collect herself before she tried to deal with politics. With a silent apology to Josephine, she left her travel clothes on, hoping she would be mistaken for an Inquisition soldier. Fortunately this was Val Royeaux, and it did not appear to occur to anyone that the plainly-dressed woman was anyone important.

She realized, belatedly, that she had not asked Dorian for his opinion about the mark. _That can come later,_ she told herself, glancing down at the crackling green light in her left hand. _He’s only just found out about his father’s death. Maker knows he doesn’t need anything else to worry about right now._

The day was bright and pleasant, and Cecily soon found herself sitting by a grand fountain, watching the water splash and mist as it poured from dozens of spouts. She could barely make out the fountain’s structure through the spray—a Chantry symbol? Or merely the passing artistic fancy of an Orlesian sculptor? Whatever it was, it was wrought of marble and bright gold. _There must be a law in Orlais about marble and gold décor._

“Present for you, Inquisitor.”

A faint _ping_ of metal caught Cecily’s ear; half a second later, she saw something out of the corner of her eye, arching through the air towards her. Instinctively, she reached out to catch the small object in her fingers. It was a key, slim and cool in her hand, the teeth biting gently into her palm.

As her benefactor approached, Cecily rose from her bench and bent her knees in a deep curtsy. “A gift? For me? My lord Viscount, you do me too much honor,” she murmured, casting her gaze humbly downwards.

“Do that again and I’ll put the incident with the rabbits in my next book.” Varric’s familiar, battered face looked stern, but Cecily could see the amused crinkle at the corners of his eyes as she straightened. “Nice to see you, by the way.”

“It’s _more_ than nice to see you,” Cecily said feelingly, searching his face for signs of stress. “How are you, Varric?” She did not add that she’d been worried ever since she’d received the letter announcing his new title. Varric was more than capable of leading a city, but Kirkwall’s recent track record with Viscounts was not encouraging.

Varric grimaced. “Relieved to have an excuse to travel. It’s been nothing but long lines of whining nobles at the Viscount’s keep lately. You of all people know what that’s like.”

“Any word from Hawke?”

“Yeah.” Varric sat down on the bench; Cecily settled beside him. “She sent me a letter from Weisshaupt. Said things ‘got interesting’ and it was probably easier to explain in person. I’m slightly terrified. Given that Hawke’s involved there’s a good chance Weisshaupt collapsed into a pile of rubble. Or blew up.”

An image of the Champion walking away from Weisshaupt as it exploded in flames flashed through Cecily’s mind. It felt surprisingly realistic.

“Well? Aren’t you going to look at your present?”

Cecily looked down and uncurled her fingers. A heavy iron key lay in her palm; its head was carved with a pattern of vines and thorns. For a moment she wondered if it was Bianca’s work, but the design was not dwarven.

“What does it unlock?”

“Your estate in Hightown. Congratulations, you’re a Comtesse.” Varric chuckled at Cecily’s stunned expression. “Come on. What’s the point of being Viscount if I can’t abuse my position to give shit to my friends?”

“It _is_ traditional,” Cecily agreed. She shook her head and let out an astonished laugh. “Varric, I—”

The dwarf held up a quelling hand. “Now, before you go telling me you can’t accept it, let me make my little speech. Whatever happens at this Exalted Council, there are big changes coming for the Inquisition. This is just my way of letting you know that you’re always welcome in Kirkwall. Bring Curly too. I think he’ll like seeing what we’ve done to rebuild.”

Unexpected tears pricked at Cecily’s eyes for the second time that day. How like Varric, to see that the future was uncertain and offer them both a home. She tried to form the right words to express that thought, but nothing felt adequate. So she offered her friend a slightly wobbly smile instead. “Thank you, Varric.”

“Any time, Trevelyan. Oh, and don’t worry—your estate’s a few streets over from Hawke’s. So you’re safe if that explodes too.”


	6. An Unwelcome Surprise

Evie ran her fingertips over the embroidery at the edge of her sleeve as she waited to be announced at the King’s dinner, and forced herself not to bite her lip. Maria’s careful inquiries had revealed that this was to be a small gathering. The most notable guest, besides the King himself, was the Orlesian ambassador Phillipe de Fabron. Evie’s best guess was that the King hoped to witness a personal reenactment of the debates at the Exalted Council.

Well, Evie would not be providing him with one. Over the past two and a half years the Inquisition’s spymasters had helped her craft an image as an ordinary and mildly frivolous young woman, tolerated in the Inquisition's diplomatic ranks because of her blood tie to the Inquisitor. That flighty reputation kept suspicion from falling on Evie when she needed to act as a spy. It also had the side benefit of humanizing Cecily. It was harder to think of someone as a terrifying tyrant-mage when her younger sister kept prattling about how much she enjoyed raspberry tarts.

So Lady Evelyn would not be discussing politics tonight, except to remind everyone of the good Cecily had done. Josephine had instructed Evie to “keep our options open,” “learn what you can,” and try to “charm everyone, but promise nothing.” Fortunately Evie had practice at talking without actually saying anything of substance. But she was more than a little nervous about performing her vapid-young-noblewoman act in front of Alistair Theirin, the legendary Grey Warden who had fought beside the Hero of Ferelden to save all of Thedas.

The chamberlain’s voice startled her out of her anxious musings. “Lady Evelyn Trevelyan, daughter to Bann Alexander Trevelyan of Ostwick, and sister to Her Worship Cecily Trevelyan, Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste.”

Evie put on her brightest, most open smile as she stepped through the door and into the small drawing room where the King’s guests were gathered. The rather harassed-looking monarch was speaking with Phillipe de Fabron--or, more accurately, he was looking for an escape while de Fabron talked to him. He immediately took her arrival as an excuse to abandon the Ambassador, and Evie sank into her most respectful curtsy as he approached.

“Welcome, Lady Evelyn.”

Evie didn’t bother to hide her curiosity as she rose and got her first good look at King Alistair. She knew better than most that real people lay behind legends, but even so, she found it startling to see the monarch in person, to realize that he was a flesh-and-blood man who had gone slightly too long between haircuts. The King was thinner and more careworn than the young warrior in the portraits around the castle, but still handsome, and Evie thought she could see the glimmer of a sense of humor behind his neutral diplomatic expression.

King Alistair returned her appraisal with a bland smile and a raised eyebrow. “So nice of the Inquisition to send a representative to my humble court.”

Josephine had warned Evie that the King was prone to sarcasm, so Evie wasn’t surprised by his somewhat cutting tone. She beamed up at him, wide-eyed and utterly oblivious. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that! It’s terribly nice of you to have me here, and to invite me to such a lovely dinner. And I can’t say enough about how kind your groom has been. You have splendid horses in the stables.”

As she’d hoped, the King seemed put off-balance by her enthusiasm. “I, ah, I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. Can’t have you telling the Inquisitor we were unwelcoming. That would be awkward.”

Evie laughed and made a little wave with her hand. “Oh, Cecy wouldn’t mind if I didn’t get my way now and then. I’m sure she thinks I’m terribly spoiled. Older sister and all that.”

King Alistair smiled politely, murmured something noncommittal, then excused himself to speak with Fergus and Marin Cousland. Evie let out a small, relieved breath and began looking around for the canapés. 

She spotted a tray of stuffed mushrooms being offered to Eamon Guerrin, but before she could claim one for herself, Phillipe de Fabron stepped directly into her path. The Orlesian ambassador was a slim, elegant man in his early forties, with almost Antivan coloring and a neat goatee that emphasized his handsome features. In deference to Ferelden sensibilities, he had abandoned his mask and wore restrained formal attire with only a few ruffles and gold accents. He immediately bent at the waist and made Evie an elaborate bow.

“It is a singular pleasure, Lady Evelyn. I cannot tell you how I have longed for this meeting.”

Evie choked back a weary sigh when she saw the calculating expression in de Fabron’s eyes. He was looking at her as if she were an attractive new piece of sculpture that he was considering for his garden—or perhaps a horse with an impressive pedigree that he was hoping to acquire for his stables. She had expected the Orlesian ambassador to be hostile or snide, but this was much more annoying.

“The pleasure is mine, I’m sure,” she lied sweetly, sinking into a curtsy. “Indeed, I’m most sorry that we haven’t met before.”

De Fabron stepped closer as she straightened. “I only saw you from a distance at the Inquisitor’s wedding.” He lowered his voice into what he probably thought was a seductive tone. “But your beauty was obvious even from across a grand ballroom.”

Evie gave the mushrooms a wistful look as they were carried away to the opposite end of the room. _Apparently tonight is going to seem even longer than I expected._

 

* * *

 

An hour into the evening, Alistair had no better idea of why the Inquisition had sent Evelyn Trevelyan to Denerim. The young noblewoman was surprisingly likeable, but she seemed utterly uninterested in politics and a bit oblivious to the Inquisition’s fearsome reputation. Alistair made a point of being within earshot of her conversations as the guests mingled in the receiving room, hoping to overhear her lobbying for the Inquisitor’s cause. He gained little for his pains. Whenever the Inquisition came up Lady Evelyn would make a joke about “that pesky magister,” or say that she was certain “Cecy—I mean, the Inquisitor” was handling the issue, before shifting the topic to something less contentious.

“Perhaps the Inquisition is simply trying to put a less threatening face on their organization,” Eamon theorized quietly as the group moved into the dining room to begin their meal.

 _That does make sense, I suppose._ But something about Eamon’s words bothered Alistair. It took him a moment to realize what it was. Early in his life Eamon had taught him that a King’s bastard was always at risk of being used in political schemes. So Alistair had told jokes and avoided responsibility and acted less capable than he was, lest anyone mistake him for a rival to Cailan’s throne. He of all people knew that appearing silly was a good way to avoid seeming like a threat.

Was Lady Evelyn playing that same game? And if so, to what end?

Eamon’s careful seating arrangements were utterly upended when Phillipe de Fabron ignored the servants’ attempts to seat him at Alistair’s right, and instead claimed Eamon’s chair next to Lady Evelyn. Alistair wondered if de Fabron intended to draw out information about the Inquisition’s goals at the Exalted Council, but the conversation quickly took a different turn.

“You fascinate me, Lady Evelyn,” de Fabron murmured as the soups were lowered in front of the guests. “You are quite the enigma, did you know?”

“Goodness. I have never thought myself a mystery to anyone.” Lady Evelyn appeared genuinely startled by the idea. “Pray tell, what do people find puzzling about me?”

“A woman with your beauty and connections could have the hand of nearly anyone in Thedas, and yet you remain almost cloistered in Ostwick.” De Fabron leaned in a hair closer; Alistair had to strain to hear the next words. “I cannot help but wonder what keeps such a delightful lady out of society.”

Lady Evelyn did _not_ lower her voice. “ _Am_ I out of society, Ambassador?” she asked sweetly. “I feel as if I’ve attended nearly every ball in the Free Marches since my sister became the Inquisitor.”

“Well, that sounds charming, I’m sure.” De Fabron’s chuckle made it clear what he thought of Marcher balls. “But I wonder if you know the full scope of opportunities available to you. For example, you would be a marvelous addition to the Orlesian court, and yet I have never seen you at the Winter Palace.”

“From what my sister has said, Halamshiral sounds—well, a bit eventful for my taste.”

Alistair choked back a laugh. If the reports on Empress Celene’s notorious ball were at all accurate, Lady Evelyn was being kind.

“That was a singular occurrence, I assure you.” De Fabron gave her an unctuous smile. “I would be delighted to change your opinion. With Orlais and the Inquisition growing ever closer, surely you will not deprive us of your company. I _do_ hope the proposed alliance pleases you?”

“Alliance? How odd, I thought the proposal aimed to bring the Inquisition under Orlesian control. Ah well, that’s Cecy’s problem in any case.”

Alistair looked up from his soup. Lady Evelyn’s tone was still light, but there was a hint of sharpness to her words, and a shrewd look flickered across her face as she watched de Fabron’s reaction. The look was gone in a moment, quickly replaced by her previous wide-eyed naiveté, but Alistair felt a calm, satisfied certainty.

His suspicions were correct. Lady Evelyn was not the silly younger sister she pretended to be.

De Fabron’s next remark was interrupted as the kitchen staff cleared away the soup plates, and a red-haired elven servant Alistair didn’t recognize began refilling wine goblets. Alistair began looking around for his chamberlain, who was supposed to interrupt the dinner with a crucial emergency that required his immediate presence.

But a sudden crash interrupted his planned escape. Lady Evelyn’s wine goblet had slipped from her fingers and shattered against the stone floor, drenching her skirt hem with dark red liquid. Every head in the room turned towards her as she pressed her fingers to her mouth and winced.

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” Lady Evelyn said, her eyes wide with embarrassment. “I’m afraid I am not entirely myself this evening—I’ve been fighting a headache. Would you be kind enough to excuse me?”

 

* * *

 

Evie accepted an escort back to her room, and allowed the kindly kitchen matron to make her a cup of mint tea to soothe the tension in her head. But as soon as the tea was settled by her bedside and she was certain she was alone, Evie flung back her covers, slid her feet into her most practical shoes, and ran to find Krem.

Her bodyguard was testing the edge of his sword when Evie burst into his room. “Was the food that bad?” he asked, arching an amused eyebrow.

Krem’s cheerful expression faded when Evie told him what she’d seen. Without another word, he sheathed his weapon, grabbed his shield, and followed Evie out into the Denerim evening.

“And you’re sure it’s her?” he asked quietly as they snuck across the courtyard, trying to hide their movement in the shadows.

 _Maker, it would be nice to be wrong about this._ “Unfortunately, yes, I’m sure.”

“You think she’ll run?”

“If she didn’t expect to see me there, perhaps. But—that doesn’t seem like her. She wouldn’t have chanced serving dinner unless she wanted to be recognized, unless she wanted me to find her.”

Which, of course, begged the question of whether Evie was a fool to take the bait. _I probably am. But I’d be a bigger fool if I didn’t try to find out what she’s up to this time._

By unspoken agreement, Krem was the one who pushed open the door to the servants’ wing, his shield at the ready and one hand curled around the pommel of his sword. Evie opened her mouth to ask if they should search the kitchen or the sleeping quarters first—but Krem’s steps came to a sudden halt as the door shut behind them.

A slim, red-haired elven woman was waiting for them in the corridor, her arms crossed and her face set in a smug expression that Evie knew all too well. The woman’s neat brown-and-grey tunic matched those worn by the other kitchen servants, but the web of calluses and scars on her slender hands marked her as something else entirely.

She gave Evie a satisfied smile. “About time you showed up, little sister.”

Evie felt her face tighten into an expressionless mask. _I was right. Blast it._

She took a quiet breath and hoped that her next words wouldn’t betray her nerves. “Well, here I am. Cremesius Aclassi, may I present Tallis of the Ben-Hassrath?”


	7. The Mark

Two hours after finding the mabari wandering in the gardens, Cullen was forced to admit that his quest to find the dog’s owner was futile. The consensus among the servants was that the dog had been adopted, and then abandoned, by an Orlesian merchant.

"He apparently saw a painting of a mabari and was determined to have one for himself, but he was most upset when that … _dog_ … chewed a fine pair of embroidered slippers,” the head housekeeper explained. She gave the mabari an uneasy look; apparently Ferelden’s fondness for the breed had not spread to Halamshiral. “I suspect he’s simply left the beast for us to deal with.”

Cullen tried to conceal his disappointment. _Poor creature._ “Ah. I see. Well, thank you for the information.”

The housekeeper nodded politely and walked briskly back towards the palace, giving the dog a wide berth as she did.

Cullen sighed as she departed. He had been relieved when Cecily and Josephine agreed that he should not be present at the Exalted Council. The Inquisitor and the Ambassador wanted to emphasize the Inquisition’s more peaceful aspects, and having the Commander in the room would only serve to remind everyone that they also had a very large army.

But waiting idly for news had never come easily to him—hence the search for the mabari’s owner. He hadn’t expected it to end in failure.

The dog was sniffing the nearest water fountain—planning to either to drink from it or relieve himself on it, Cullen wasn’t sure which—but immediately perked up when Cullen looked his way. He was a handsome creature, with a glossy black-brown coat and a friendly, alert expression. He settled his haunches on the ground and looked up at the Commander expectantly.

He chuckled. “Awaiting orders, are you? Well, I suppose I have to do something to distract myself. Come along.”

Cullen could have sworn that the dog was smiling as he leapt up to follow the Commander.

 

* * *

 

Cullen threw his hands up in exasperation as, once again, the mabari caught the ball of rags between his teeth. “No, no, no! You’re to dodge, not catch _._ If that were a fireball you’d be dead!”

The dog dropped the rag-ball at Cullen’s feet and looked up at him, cheerful and unrepentant in the face of Cullen’s sternest expression. The Commander felt a smile crack through in spite of himself. “Clearly your military training has been below standards.”

“But his fetching training seems quite good.”

Cullen turned his head to see Cecily, striking in her gold-and-white Inquisitor’s jacket, looking at them and smiling—not her polite Bann’s daughter smile, but the warm, subtle curve of her mouth that always managed to lift his spirits. “Is this a new recruit, Commander?”

“I’m afraid he may not be suitable for military service. Mabari are supposed to be bred for battle, but this one seems determined to tackle incoming projectiles.” He gave the dog a disapproving look. The dog panted back happily.

“Perhaps he’s a hunting dog,” Cecily theorized. “He might have been trained to retrieve birds after they’re shot down.” She reached out her hand for the dog to smell; he gave it a quick sniff, decided she was acceptable, and slid beneath her fingers so she could scratch his ears. “So. We have a mabari now?”

Cullen wasn’t quite sure how to answer that—although he had to admit he rather liked the idea. “His owner apparently abandoned him after a mishap with a pair of expensive slippers,” he began. “I hadn’t quite thought through what to do with him. I’d hate to abandon a fellow Ferelden in Orlais.”

“Mia and the children might like him?” Cecily suggested. “Or—I mean, I’ve never had a pet. But he seems like a nice dog—and mabari are supposed to be an intelligent breed.” She smiled down at the mabari, who proved the aforementioned intelligence by rolling onto his back and giving her an adoring look.

Cullen chuckled as she knelt to rub the dog’s stomach. “How was the Exalted Council? I didn’t expect it to end until well into the afternoon.”

“Leliana called for a short recess. It began … well, no better than we expected, but no worse. Josephine and I are trying to keep our options open until we’ve made a decision.” She looked up at Cullen. “We’ll have to sit down and talk this through again.” She sounded no more excited about the prospect than Cullen felt.

“I know,” he sighed. “I have to admit that I still feel the Inquisition has a place. Perhaps the Council might be more at ease if we promised to reduce our forces? Or if we returned a few of our fortresses, keeping only the more remote ones that Orlais and Ferelden never bothered to administer anyway?”

“That might placate the Arl,” Cecily admitted. “He brought up Caer Bronach and asked why we’re still holding it. Although I don’t think Ferelden will be truly satisfied unless we give up Skyhold. And it doesn’t solve the problem that most worries me—what happens if the Inquisition passes into other hands? The wrong hands?”

There it was again, that strange, dark worry about what would happen to the Inquisition if something happened to its Inquisitor. Why did this vex her so? “Unless you quit, I don’t see how …”

Cecily winced and looked back down at the mabari. Cullen felt his words trailing off as his attention shifted to his wife’s hands. She was only using her right hand to pet the dog; the left rested on her thigh, the anchor casting a green glow over her lap.

Had the mark’s light always flickered that way?

“Cecy.” He waited until she looked up at him, until their eyes met.

The question was out of his mouth almost before he knew to ask it. “What’s wrong with the mark?”

Cecily went very still. She swallowed visibly, then took an uneven breath. “I don’t know.”

Cullen knelt beside her—partly to offer support, partly to conceal the sudden shake in his legs. He took her hand—the right hand—and said nothing, waited for her to continue.

“About a month ago I started to feel it changing. I’ve tried, but I haven’t been able to put it back the way it was.” Cecily’s fingers tightened in his. “Its power surges sometimes and I can’t control it. It—it hurts.”

The description reminded Cullen of those first hours after the Conclave, of the way the mark had crackled and flared in her dark cell before Solas stabilized it.

_When we were certain she was about to die._

That thought sent his heart racing, but Cullen kept his voice calm, tried to push aside his own terror. “There must be something we can do. Have you told Dorian, or Vivienne?”

Cecily shook her head. “I’d planned to, but with everything happening I just—it didn’t come up.” She sighed. “No, that’s not right. I didn’t bring it up. Cullen—Cullen, what if the answer is no? What if it can’t be fixed?”

The last words were almost a whisper, and Cullen’s heart broke to hear the fear in her voice. She pressed her lips together and dropped her head; when she raised it again, two tears had trailed down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to make you worry about this too. I—I’m afraid, Cullen. Afraid of what could happen to the Inquisition if I—”

Cullen pulled her tightly into his arms. He wanted to tell her that she would be all right, that she shouldn’t worry, but how could he dismiss her fear when he shared it himself?

“I won’t let anyone else take over the Inquisition, Cecy. I swear it.” He pulled back and cradled her face in his hands, brushed her tears away with his thumb. “Leave that worry to your advisors. _You_ focus on the mark. Solas stabilized it once before—you and Dorian and Vivienne can surely repeat what he did. I don’t care if it takes the entire College of Enchanters and a dozen more insane inventions by Dagna, I _know_ this can be fixed.”

_And if none of that works, I will go to the ends of Thedas and back to find Solas. I’ll drag him back to Skyhold by his ankles if I have to._

Cecily leaned forward and rested her forehead against his. “I love you, Cullen. Whatever happens, I—no. No. I love you. That’s all I want to say.”

“I love you too.” His voice was rough and unsteady.

They stayed like that for a long time, the mabari resting quietly next to them as they held each other. A few strands of hair fell down from Cecily’s neat knot; they tickled Cullen’s face as they floated in the breeze, and he tucked them back, wishing he could fix the mark as easily. The Exalted Council, their arguments about the Inquisition’s future, the posturing among allies and enemies—all of it fell away as Cullen prayed quietly to the Maker to save the woman he loved.

_We called her the Herald of Andraste when she stepped out of the Fade._ Would Cecily, too, be called to the Maker’s side after carrying out His will in the mortal world?

_No. I cannot lose you. I_ will not _lose you._

Their embrace ended when the dog suddenly leapt up and barked, his attention caught by something nearby. Cecily and Cullen looked up to see The Iron Bull standing a few paces away. The spymaster cleared his throat apologetically.

“Sorry to interrupt, Boss. But there’s something you need to know.”

Bull was visibly concerned—which was a worry in itself, since he normally shrugged off every risk with an off-color joke. Cullen helped Cecily to her feet and braced himself for bad news. He was not disappointed.

Bull crossed his arms and lowered his voice. “The Divine’s people just found a dead Qunari soldier.”

 

* * *

 

It was hard to think of how the situation could be worse.

The dead Qunari’s trail of blood had led them to an Eluvian—an active one linked to the Crossroads. That had led to a network of elven ruins, a series of battles against spirits, and the discovery that the Qunari were planning to use the Elivuans to execute an ominously-named plan called Dragon’s Breath. As best Cecily could tell, the plan was an invasion that involved lyrium-enhanced Saarebas.

And the trouble didn’t end with destroying the Qunari lyrium mine they’d found. Oh no. When Cecily returned to the Winter Palace she was promptly swept into an argument over an Inquisition soldier who had tried to detain an Orlesian servant. Cecily did her best to smooth ruffled Orlesian feathers by releasing the servant and quietly taking her soldier aside to ask what on earth she’d been thinking.

Minutes later, with a note from the Viddasala in her hand and a large silver barrel sitting in front of her, Cecily bitterly regretted that decision.

“Yeah, that’s gaatlok, all right.” The Iron Bull gave the barrel a sour look. “How the _fuck_ did they get that into the palace?”

“There’s more than that one, if the Viddasala’s notes are accurate.” Leliana gave them both a serene smile. “Pleasant faces, everyone. Eyes are watching.”

“Would you be so kind as to have your people handle the gaatlok in the Winter Palace, Leliana?” Cecily asked through a grimace that she hoped could pass for a smile. “I’m going back through that Eluvian to find this Viddasala. Bull, you’re with me. I may need you to translate more notes.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Bull rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. “But—give me a minute to send some ravens. The Viddasala doesn’t seem like she’s thinking small.”

“He is right. The Winter Palace may not be the only target.” Leliana’s pleasant expression wavered momentarily.

Suddenly Cecily realized what the two of them were trying not to say. “Other targets—other palaces? Like Denerim? Where we sent my _sister_?” She could feel the blood drain from her face, and could not force her smile to remain in place.

“Crofter can handle herself, boss,” Bull said sternly. “And blowing up that lyrium mine must have thrown a wrench into the works—no way are they going to detonate anything before our news reaches Denerim.”

“Especially not if we find the Viddasala first,” the Inquisitor said grimly. “Leliana, you handle the ravens. Bull, find Dorian and meet me at the Eluvian. We’re leaving as soon as possible.”

The mark’s magic flared slightly; with effort, Cecily drew it back. Pain shot up her forearm, but the flare subsided.

_I’ll deal with this after I deal with the Viddasala. But for now I’ll just have to keep it under control._


	8. Gaatlok

Thousands of miles away, completely unaware of the message racing its way to Denerim, Evie stood face to face with a Qunari spy. One she knew—and one who had almost gotten her killed.

_Bloody hell. What does she want this time?_

Tallis, annoyingly, was more focused on Krem than on her reunion with Evie. “So you’re Cremesius Aclassi? The _Aqun-Athlok_ who was once companion to Hissrad?”

Evie didn’t know what ‘Aqun-Athlok’ meant, and wondered if it was an insult, but Krem seemed more offended by the second part of Tallis’s sentence. “I still work for the chief.”

“But he is no longer Hissrad,” Tallis corrected, her voice clipped and smug.

“Yeah, well, that wasn’t his call. Your loss.” Krem’s expression was growing unfriendlier by the minute.

Evie cleared her throat. “We’re impressed by your deep knowledge of the Inquisition’s people, Tallis. Now that we’re suitably intimidated, can you tell us what in the Void you want?”

Tallis finally turned her attention back to Evie. She arched one eyebrow and smiled. “Not happy to see me, little sister?”

“Considering last time, no, not very.” Evie tried to sound bored and matter-of-fact, instead of furious. Shortly before Corypheus’s death, she had crossed paths with the Qunari agent while investigating a group of Venatori assassins. A brief, and admittedly productive, alliance had then collapsed when Evie found out that Tallis wasn’t telling her everything. The rest of the story had almost ended very badly for Evie. Leliana later told her that this was something of a pattern for Tallis.

Tallis heaved a sigh. “I’m sorry about that thing in Gwaren, all right?” She sounded more annoyed than apologetic. “But if you’re going to be in our line of work you’re going to have to get used to people keeping a few secrets from you.”

Evie swallowed her retort. Arguing with Tallis about what had gone wrong and why wasn’t going to get them anywhere. “You’re stalling. Why are you in Denerim? And why let me see you at that dinner party?”

Tallis looked at her seriously. “First, I need a promise from you.” She glanced at Krem. “Both of you. It’s quite literally a matter of life and death. If this news lands in the wrong hands before we’ve fixed it, we’ll have a war on our hands that will make your mages and Templars look like a minor skirmish.”

This was starting to feel uncomfortably familiar to Evie. “And the promise is ….?”

The elf crossed her arms. “Don’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you until tomorrow morning. And when you send your ravens to The Steel Horse or whatever he calls himself now—”

Krem glared, but didn’t rise to the bait.

“—leave my name out of it.”

Now _that_ piqued Evie’s interest—which was probably what Tallis had intended. She tried not to let her curiosity show on her face. “Only if you promise to tell us the truth about why you’re here. The full truth. You answer every question we ask, and no lies by omission.”

Tallis nodded seriously. “You have my word.”

Evie bit back an unkind remark about what she thought _that_ was worth. Her skepticism must have shown on her face because Tallis arched her eyebrow wryly, as if to acknowledge the unspoken thought.

She forced her expression back to cool neutrality. "Then you have my word as well. No news until tomorrow morning, and your name stays out of it." 

Tallis's mouth curved in a faint, satisfied smile, but then her face turned serious once more. “I'm here because there are barrels of gaatlok hidden throughout Denerim’s palace. Qunari agents are waiting for a signal, then they’ll blast this place into rubble and begin an invasion.”

Evie rocked back on her heels, briefly stunned into silence.

“Shi-i-it,” Krem breathed, dragging the curse word out over several syllables.

“Not to point out the obvious, but aren’t _you_ a Qunari agent?” Evie asked after a beat. “Why are you telling us this?”

Tallis nodded; she’d clearly expected that question. “The plan wasn’t authorized by the Arishok. I’m here to stop it before a rogue group forces a war between the Qun and the bas. But there are too many barrels for me to handle alone, and there are areas of the palace I can’t access in this guise, not without raising alarm. I need your help.”

Evie's face pulled itself into a puzzled frown. Something about Tallis’s story wasn’t quite right. “They sent you alone?”

Tallis opened her mouth, then closed it again. Suddenly, Krem grimaced. “No. The Arishok doesn’t know she’s here. Who sent you?”

The Qunari agent’s shoulders slumped, ever so slightly. “I exchanged some odd letters with an old mentor, the Viddasala who deals with the magical side of the Ben-Hassrath. I figured out what she was up to, and … I realized I would have to act quickly. There hasn’t been time to consult anyone else, much less the Arishok.”

Suspicion bubbled in Evie’s stomach. “Or, maybe you’re afraid to tell your superiors because you don’t know if they’ll order you to stop it.”

“The Arishok considers the King of Ferelden _basalit-an_. If he wanted King Alistair dead he would face him on the battlefield, not load his bedroom with explosives.” But uncertainty lurked in Tallis’s eyes.

Evie had gathered, from their previous acquaintance, that doubt had haunted Tallis ever since she had become Qunari. She sympathized, but she also couldn’t resist the opportunity to needle her rival a bit more. “Isn’t making up your own orders frowned on in the Qun?”

Tallis’s mouth tightened in annoyance. “Look. Do you want to help me stop a war that might decimate both our peoples, or argue with me about my religion?”

“I have to choose?”

Tallis didn’t reply, but did shoot Evie a poisonous glare. Evie decided not to push her any further. “All right. What do you propose?”

The elf rolled up the sleeve of her tunic, revealing a small, flat pouch strapped to her forearm. She reached inside and pulled out a thin stack of folded papers. “I’ve got maps that show where the gaatlok is—I found one of the Viddasala’s people and convinced him to turn them over.”

She handed one of the papers to Evie. The maps were small, but neatly drawn, with red x’s presumably denoting the gaatlok. The greatest number, by far, seemed to be concentrated in the nobles’ wing—presumably with the hope of killing Eamon, the Couslands, and the King in one attack. _Maker. Ferelden would be left in utter disarray._

Tallis continued with her plan. “The three of us split up to cover more ground, take out the fuses from every barrel, and drench the gaatlok in water if we can. Tomorrow I’ll convince the palace servants to remove the barrels and load them onto a ship I’ve hired. Explosions foiled, war averted.”

Krem’s response was immediate. “No. I’m with Lady Evelyn.”

The elf arched an eyebrow. “Do you want to explain why you’re roaming the halls with her ladyship at this time of night? Because I can guess what the rumors will be tomorrow morning after half the servants in the palace see you.”

Evie didn’t much care about that, but she _did_ care about keeping track of Tallis, and there was no way the three of them could roam the nobles’ halls unnoticed. “There could be more agents in the palace. You two should stick together.” She didn’t tell Krem to keep his eye on Tallis, but based on his quiet nod and Tallis’s smirk, they both caught her meaning. “There are at least four more courses to go in the King’s dinner. I should be able to slip in and out of the nobles’ rooms without being detected, and any Qunari agents will have more trouble sneaking into that wing.” _I hope._

Krem’s eyebrows drew together thoughtfully as he examined the maps. “Well, they’re being thorough, all right. Why Ferelden? Why not Val Royeaux, or the Exalted Council?”

Tallis grimaced. After a long, uncomfortable pause, she admitted, “It’s—not just Ferelden.” At Evie’s outraged glare, she added, “I’ve contacted others in Orlais and the Free Marches. They’re capable. It will be handled.”

 _Bloody right it will be. I’m sending every available raven to the Iron Bull as soon as I get Tallis out of my hair, morning or no._ Evie felt little, if any, guilt at the thought of breaking her promise. Keeping your word was all very well and good, but it wasn’t worth explosions.

But first, she would have to handle things in Denerim.


	9. The King's Chambers

Evie’s lingering doubt about Tallis’s story was swiftly cut in half after she found the first barrel, nestled beneath a staircase linking the servants’ quarters with the nobles’ wing, just where the map said it would be. By the fourth load of gaatlok—this one disguised within a bedside table and placed right beside Fergus Cousland’s pillow—the doubt had been erased altogether. Whoever the Viddasala was, she was clearly playing for keeps.

_Maker. If they have this many explosions planned, how many agents are in this palace?_

Evie pushed that thought aside—not because it didn’t worry her, but because there was nothing she could do about it right now. With a silent apology to the Teyrna, she used the edge of a heavy, elegant broach from the bureau to pry the nails loose from the top of the false table. Once the gaatlok was revealed she pocketed the fuse, then poured the Couslands’ washing water over the powdery black substance inside. She didn’t have time to replace the nails, so she pocketed those too and eased the wooden slab back into place. She hoped the Teyrn didn’t set anything heavy there that evening.

Faint footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Dark shadows appeared in the light beneath the Couslands’ door—and came to a stop there.

Evie’s breath caught. As silently as she could, she made her way towards the windows—if the door opened, she thought she could climb out and into the next room without being seen.

But her plan proved unnecessary. After a beat, the footsteps moved on. Evie ran a hand across her face and ordered her heart to stop pounding in her chest. Her heart didn’t obey, but at least her stomach stopped doing backflips.

 _A servant? Or a Qunari agent?_ Either way, she would have to step carefully.

Evie pulled the map from her pocket and mentally scratched off the Couslands’ room. There were five barrels left in the nobles’ wing. Three would be easy to reach. The last two would be trickier, seeing as they were in King Alistair’s bedchamber. Evie could invent compelling reasons to be almost anyplace in the palace, but explaining how she’d found her way into the King’s rooms would not be easy if she were caught.

_Maybe I could pretend to be a royal souvenir-hunter. I could say I wanted the King’s toothbrush for my private collection._

But her chances of being caught were, hopefully, lower with the King at dinner. Now that she knew Tallis’s information was accurate, it was time to pay the King’s chambers a visit.

As Evie pocketed her map and prepared to return to the hallway, the door suddenly swung open, this time with no footsteps to warn her. She froze as a young human man stepped into the room, his right palm pushing the door open and his left arm cradling a stack of blankets. The man—more a boy, really—blanched in alarm when he saw her; his brown eyes widened and a faint flush rose on his cheeks.

Evie clapped both hands over her mouth, paused in mock horror, and started giggling. “Maker preserve me, I’m in the wrong room!” she gasped when she dropped her hands. “I—I spilled wine all over myself, do you see? I just wanted to change my gown, but …” she trailed off, looked around the room, and started giggling again, punctuating it with a slightly wobbly step towards the door. “My gowns are in _my_ room, not this room.”

The servant’s expression went from worried to annoyed. “Do you need an escort, my lady?”

“Oh, no. I’m just one door down. Or is it two? It might be three. I’ll find my way.”

She kept up her wobbly walk and the silly, drunken smile as she made her way to the door. With every step her hopes rose. Perhaps this truly was just a servant, there to change the bedclothes.

But then out of the corner of her eye she saw the young man’s gaze fall directly on Fergus Cousland’s nightstand—and saw his blankets drop to the floor as he decided to abandon his ruse.

Evie was no more than a pace into a mad dash for the hallway when an iron-hard arm caught her around the torso. “Don’t struggle,” the young man hissed in her ear as he pinned her arms tight. Evie felt a faint metallic prickle from the inside of his wrist as he curled his free hand around her right shoulder. “The blade in my sleeve is poisoned. You won’t survive if I choose to use it, Lady Evelyn.”

Evie went still. “Tallis, I presume?”

The man grunted. “You’re well-informed for a bas. Too well-informed. Who told you of Dragon’s Breath?”

 _The gaatlok plan has a name._ “The Inquisition discovered your plan,” she lied. “My orders came from our spymaster. Dragon’s Breath will fail, if it has not already—and if you harm me, the Inquisitor will know who to blame.”

“You lie,” Other-Tallis hissed. “We have been careful and quiet; the Inquisition knows nothing. Who betrayed us? Who have you corrupted?”

Evie’s pulse quickened. “Don’t delude yourself. Our spymaster was once Ben-Hassrath. He still has many friends in your ranks.” She sniffed, trying to feign casual arrogance. “Perhaps you’ll believe me when my sister puts the Viddasala’s head on a pike at Skyhold.”

She silently apologized to Cecy, who would of course do no such thing.

“Hold your tongue, bas.” Roughly, the agent shoved her a step forward and caught her left arm in his right hand. “Now follow my steps quietly, and you might survive the night.”

Evie didn’t believe him, but he was stronger and faster than she was; this was not her moment to make an escape. She forced her feet to match his strides as he guided her down the hallway. 

Their walk ended the last place Evie expected: at the door to King Alistair’s chambers.

Evie briefly wondered why the door wasn’t guarded—but then saw two limp figures, one propped up on each side of the door. She had assumed Other-Tallis had interrupted her mission, but she suddenly realized that from his point of view, it was the other way around. She cursed herself for not being more careful, for not noticing that something else was afoot in the nobles' wing. Whatever he was planning here was ambitious, and clearly dangerous.

Her companion ushered her roughly inside. As soon as the King's door was shut Other-Tallis all but threw her into the nearest armchair and planted himself in front of her, too close for Evie to slip past and escape.

It was exactly the chance Evie had hoped for. She clasped her hands tight, as if in fear, and turned her attention to the ring on her right thumb. The heavy gold bauble bore House Trevelyan’s crest and served as Evie’s personal seal—but more importantly, it also concealed a dose of the Inquisition’s best knockout powder.

Other-Tallis looked down at her with something like remorse. Or pity. “I am sorry for what must happen next, but you will do this ruined world a service. When the Inquisitor’s sister is found dead in the King’s bedchamber, the palace will be placed in an uproar, and we can proceed with Dragon’s Breath unnoticed. The chaos of the bas will be conquered and your people will know peace.”

“So much for surviving the night, then?” Evie asked. Between her fingers, the Trevelyan seal twisted free; she tilted her hands carefully, tipping the powder into the palm of her left hand.

Other-Tallis laid a hand on his belt knife. “I’ll make this swift, so long as you don’t …”

Evie didn’t give him a chance to finish before she flung the knockout powder into his face. Other-Tallis tried to pull his knife and complete his task, but the Inquisition’s tools were effective; he was unconscious and falling before he had freed his blade. Evie watched as the Qunari agent collapsed at the foot of her chair.

 _Oh good,_ she thought wildly, looking down at her enemy and forcing herself to stand on shaking legs. _I’m not dead._

“Ahem.”

Evie’s stomach dropped to her knees. With a mounting sense of dread, she turned to face the source of the voice. A tall male figure was standing in the doorway to the King's private bath chamber. In one hand, the man held a sword; the other hand clutched a towel around his waist.

Evie gulped.

“Good evening, Lady Evelyn,” said King Alistair Theirin.

“Well met, your Majesty,” she replied faintly.


	10. Lady Evelyn

Naia Tabris had given Alistair many useful pieces of advice over the years. One of them was about the relaxing effects of a hot bath. Alistair decided to follow her recommendation after leaving the state dinner. He tried not to feel too guilty about leaving Eamon behind. With Lady Evelyn gone, the former Arl was probably in for a dull evening, but Alistair was not about to waste a perfectly good escape plan.

 _And what exactly caused her Ladyship's sudden headache_? Alistair wondered as he leaned back in the tub. _Was de Fabron annoying her? Or was there something else ..._

A soft scuffling sound interrupted his musings.

He paused and listened, but the sound did not repeat itself. Even so, he cast his eyes over to his sword, seeking reassurance in its familiar shape. Back when he became a Grey Warden he had been trained never to leave his weapon out of arms' reach, and the habit remained. The blade had been replaced several times since the Blight, but he kept the battered Warden cross-guard and hilt despite the sighs of the palace armsmasters. Even Kings were allowed to be a little sentimental.

Alistair had emerged from the bath and was toweling himself dry when he heard the outer door to his chambers open. He expected it to be Eamon with a report on the evening's conversations, so he secured his towel around his waist and prepared to shout out that he would just be a moment—but his guards did not announce Eamon's presence. Instead, he heard a distinct _thump._

_Well. That's ... probably bad._

Alistair reached out and clasped the hilt of his sword in his hand. Silently, he raised the blade and eased the door to his bath open.

A young man Alistair recognized from the palace staff was looming over one of his armchairs, glaring down at a dark-haired woman sitting there. The woman's face was half in shadow, but Alistair could see her twisting her hands nervously.

The servant placed a hand at his belt, clearly intending to draw a weapon—but suddenly the woman raised her hand and threw something in his face. The man choked, stumbled, and collapsed on the carpet.

_Knockout powder? Who ...?_

The woman stood a bit unsteadily, her gaze focused on the man at her feet. With a start, Alistair realized that it was none other than his missing dinner guest, still wearing the wine-soaked dress from a few hours before. The gown was now extremely wrinkled and there was a small tear in one sleeve. Evidently, Lady Evelyn had had an interesting evening.

He cleared his throat; she turned her head, her face paling in surprise. "Good evening, Lady Evelyn."

The Inquisitor's sister composed herself remarkably quickly. "Well met, your Majesty."

Alistair held his sword steady and tried to look Kingly and intimidating. He also tried not to think too hard about the fact that he was wearing nothing but a towel. "Well met indeed. Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way, what in the Maker's name are you doing in my chambers, and why is there an unconscious man at your feet?"

"Noticed him, did you?" Lady Evelyn asked, with a hint of a sheepish smile.

"I did. In fact, I almost always notice strange people-sized objects on the floor of my room. King Alistair the Mildly Observant, that's what they'll call me in stories and songs. Or in hostile limericks."

Lady Evelyn pressed her lips together, muffling a slight chuckle.

Alistair had to suppress his own smile; even under the circumstances, it was nice to have someone laugh at his jokes. "Now then. Back to my question: what are you doing here? If you don't want to answer, I can also call the palace guard. Up to you, really."

The Inquisitor's sister appeared to be thinking something through. Alistair was on the verge of calling for his guards when she spoke. "Your servant was a Qunari agent. He caught me in the nobles' wing and dragged me in here—I think he was trying to create an emergency that would deflect attention from a larger plan."

Whatever Alistair had expected, it wasn't that. Something awful occurred to him. "What happened to ...?"

Lady Evelyn's eyes went wide. "Maker's breath, your guards!"

The guards, fortunately, were merely unconscious, and Lady Evelyn's necklace just happened to conceal a vial of smelling salts. Five minutes later both men were seated on a padded bench in Alistair's room, rattled but alive, as Lady Evelyn encouraged them to take sips of water and wash any stray grains of knockout powder from their faces. The servant-slash-Qunari agent still lay crumpled on Alistair's carpet, unaware of the resentful glares being aimed at him by his now-conscious victims.

_So much for a quiet evening in a relaxing bath._

Alistair took a breath, sorted out what needed to be done, and turned his attention to his guards. "Are you well enough to carry this man?" he asked, gesturing at the unconscious spy.

Both men nodded. "Then take him to a cell. _Quietly._ Tell your Captain he's there, but no one else. Await my orders before anyone questions him—and search him thoroughly for weapons and poisons before you lock the door."

The guards moved somewhat more stiffly than they usually did, but they performed their task quickly. When the door shut behind them, Alistair looked over at Lady Evelyn.

The Inquisitor's sister returned his gaze and raised her chin a bit. "Your Majesty?"

Alistair arranged his face in its sternest expression. "I suggest you have a seat and make yourself comfortable, your Ladyship. I have a rather large number of questions I need you to answer."

Lady Evelyn looked resigned, but not surprised. "May I make a small suggestion, your Majesty?" she asked delicately. Her gaze flickered down his frame before returning to his face.

Alistair felt his cheeks heat slightly. "Ah. Good idea. Questions second, pants first."

 

* * *

 

Evie took a seat in the armchair closest to a mirror while King Alistair retrieved a set of clothes. When he retreated to his bath to change, she looked into the glass and tried to smooth her hair; her brief struggle with Other-Tallis had shaken her hairpins loose and several curls were falling in her eyes and down her neck. Since her elegant updo was now a loss, she unpinned it entirely and settled for shoving her hair into a tangled knot at the nape of her neck.

_Let's see. So far tonight, I've trusted a Qunari agent who almost got me killed, gotten captured by a different Qunari agent, and seen the King of Ferelden half-naked._

_Well, at least my report will make for interesting reading._

She sat up straighter as the bath door open. King Alistair was now dressed in a simple tunic and a pair of riding trousers. Evie was rather surprised that a King had such plain garments on hand, but tried not to show it. He had tried to dry his hair further but it still stuck out from his head in damp spikes. The effect was boyish, and oddly charming.

The King pulled another armchair over to face hers and sat, then looked at her for a long moment, his frame leaning slightly forward as he examined her. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly trying to decide how to proceed.

Evie couldn't help it. She laughed—not a nervous titter, but a full-throated chuckle of real amusement. "Well," she managed after a beat. "This is awkward."

The King's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Awkward? Really? I can't think why. Because I found you in my bedchamber, or because you caught me in the bath?"

Evie raised a hand in protest. "Technically you were out of the bath."

King Alistair's jaw twitched; Evie thought he might be biting his cheek to stop a smile. "I'll excuse you being in my bedchamber, since it clearly wasn't your idea." He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. "But, since you aren't ill, I am _very_ interested in what you were doing this evening after you left dinner."

Evie's mind raced with potential excuses and evasions. She could claim that she had feigned a headache out of boredom, and that the Qunari agent had taken her from her chambers, but something told her that the King wasn't going to believe her. Any sympathy he had left for the Inquisition might evaporate if she lied to him—and worse, if she were kept for further interrogation, she could not reach the remaining gaatlok or warn Krem about what had happened. She was going to have to tell the truth and hope Tallis wasn't in a stabbing mood.

She looked him right in the eye and tried to keep her voice matter-of-fact. "I've been defusing barrels of gaatlok hidden in the nobles' wing. Qunari agents have been hiding them all over the palace. My bodyguard is in the servants' wing trying to neutralize the barrels there." Maker, she hoped Krem was all right.

The King's expression darkened—in annoyance, she realized. "And when was the blasted Inquisition planning to share this delightful bit of news?"

"As soon as they found out, I expect. My intelligence came from—well, not through Inquisition channels." Evie pulled the maps out of her pocket and held them out, hoping he might see them as a peace offering. "At first I wasn't sure if my contact could be trusted, but I've found four of the barrels marked on the top map. Two more are in this room," she added helpfully. "I was trying to figure out how to get in here unnoticed when their agent grabbed me."

The King raised an eyebrow as he looked the maps over. "Well, I suppose there's an easy way to check your story." He cast his eyes towards the stood corner of his room, where an enormous leafy potted plant blocked half the light from a north-facing window.

"I wondered why my chamberlain put that ugly thing in here," he muttered as he stood.

After reaching the plant and considering it a moment, the King bent and pulled it out by its roots. Evie craned her neck to see what else was in the pot. At first she saw only dirt—but then she spotted the edge of something round and wooden.

King Alistair pried the lid off the hidden barrel and scowled down at its contents. "It appears I am going to have words with the Arishok."

His tone was light, but Evie could sense anger and betrayal in his expression, and she remembered what Tallis had said about the Arishok and the King. "My contact claims the scheme didn't come from the Qunari leadership," she offered. "The Arishok may not know. This isn't usually how the Qunari deal with _basalit-an,_ from what I understand."

The King looked back at her, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "You know a lot about the Qunari."

Evie shrugged. "My sister has made some interesting friends."

"Yes, I imagine so," he said wryly, pulling out the fuse. "Now, what about the other bomb in my room?"

The second device was even better concealed—it had been slipped inside an antique set of armor that, according to the King, had decorated his chambers ever since he'd been crowned. Evie got the sense that the King's chamberlain was going to be facing some very uncomfortable questions tomorrow morning.

Two satisfying splashes later, the bombs were soaking in the bottom of the King's bath; not even the most skilled Qunari bombmaker would be able to salvage them now. The King turned to her with an oddly exhilarated smile on his face. "Well, that takes care of the ones in here. I think we'd best eliminate the other devices and find your bodyguard, don't you?"

Evie's stomach flipped nervously. If the Viddasala's people got their hands on the King of Ferelden ...

King Alistair raised an eyebrow at her silence. "Please don't tell me to keep my Kingly self out of danger. I was just starting to like you." He crossed the room and pulled a sword harness from a trunk. "Besides, it's my castle. If it might explode, I really should do something about it."

Evie opened her mouth to argue, then paused. This was a man who had battled an Archdemon; telling him to stay out of a fight seemed more than a little ridiculous. And if she ran into more Qunari agents it certainly wouldn't hurt to have a skilled swordsman on her side.

"You make a good point, your Majesty."

"Thank you. I try to do that at least once a day."


	11. The Armory

Alistair and Lady Evelyn made short work of the gaatlok barrel in Arl Eamon’s quarters, and had only slightly more trouble with the one in Ambassador de Fabron’s room—the Qunari had wedged it snugly underneath the Ambassador’s heavy gilded wardrobe. It took both of them to budge the thing far enough to remove the fuse and pour water over the explosives.

They performed their tasks silently, communicating by pointing and raised eyebrows, neither of them wanting to chance being overheard. But once the wardrobe was back in its place and they had snuck away to the servants’ stairwell, Alistair chanced a bit of conversation. “No other agents so far,” he said quietly.

Lady Evelyn frowned. “I find that odd. I doubt our friend was working alone, not if his mission involved breaking into a King’s bedroom.”

Alistair nodded; the same thought had occurred to him. “Do you think they could have found your bodyguard?”

“That’s my worry,” she admitted, her brows knitting together anxiously. “Krem can more than handle himself, but he could be outnumbered.”

“What about your contact? The one who gave you the maps?”

“She’s with Krem. Or she was. She, ah, usually has her own agenda.”

Alistair winced sympathetically. “Unstable allies. I know what that’s like. All right, let’s find him.” He took two steps down the staircase, dragging his palm along the rough stones until he found the right one—the one that was just a bit smoother and warmer than the rest. A grinding noise and some shifting near the landing produced a three-foot gap in the wall.

Lady Evelyn grinned in genuine delight. “A secret passage!”

“It leads underground and comes up between the armory and the servants’ wing. Naia found it a few days after my coronation. It’s a good thing too, I was planning to give the crown back if my castle didn’t have any secret passages.”

“Only sensible thing to do,” Lady Evelyn agreed seriously. “You couldn’t accept a crown that came with a third-rate castle.”

Alistair couldn’t quite hide his smile at that. He pulled a torch off the wall and offered it to her. “After you, your Ladyship.”

The Inquisitor’s sister bobbed a curtsy with her stained skirt. “You are too kind, your Majesty,” she replied, taking the torch carefully in her left hand.

“Call me Alistair,” he said as she stepped into the passageway. “Without you there would still be two bombs in my bedroom. I think that means you can use my first name.”

The Inquisitor’s sister paused mid-step and looked back over her shoulder with a smile. “Then you should call me Evie,” she said. “Everyone does—well, everyone I like at any rate.”

*

 _“Everyone I like?” Maker’s breath, Crofter. What’s wrong with you?_ Evie scolded herself as she made her way down the narrow stairs of the secret passage. She briefly tried to convince herself that he had been friendly and she had simply been friendly in return, but she knew she’d been flirting. And this was hardly the time to be flirting with anyone, no matter how funny or handsome they were. Especially the King of bloody Ferelden. _Especially_ when they still didn’t know the full scale of what the Qunari were planning here.

_Krem. We’ve got to find Krem._

That thought effectively refocused Evie’s attention, and she quickened her steps, her footing more confident as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. The staircase ended in a small landing, but only three feet later, another set of stairs rose up into the darkness. “Does this lead to the exit?” she asked quietly as she began the climb, her right hand tracing the stones on the wall for balance.

“It does,” the King replied, his voice soft but close behind her. “There’s a lever to the right of the door—we’ll come out in a hallway. Armory to the right, servants’ quarters to the left.”

“Do you mind if we stop in the armory first? I have a knife, but I’m better with a bow.”

“I suppose we can lend you one, if you promise to return it.” She could hear a smile in his voice.

“Send the bill to Cecy if I lose it,” she suggested.

The two of them reached the armory a few silent minutes later. The room was in shadows, the sun having fully set by now, but it did have a few scattered torches lit for the benefit of the guards who would patrol this room. The effect was not a little eerie—but it also reminded Evie of the Skyhold cellars, which in an odd way made it feel like home.

Alistair began brushing a stubborn cobweb off the sleeve of his tunic as Evie ran her fingers across a rack of longbows. She chose the smallest one—best-suited for any shots she might have to take indoors—and slung a quiver over her shoulder, but suddenly a rack of crossbows caught her eye. _Perhaps one of the smaller ones …_

“We should kill them and be done with it!”

Evie froze. It was a woman’s voice, older and cultured, with a strong Ferelden accent. The voice was loud and clearly frustrated, and Evie had a very good guess who “they” were. _Krem._

She looked over at Alistair, who grimaced and pointed at an open door to the far side of the room. He mouthed _storage room_ at her and motioned for her to follow him. Evie did so, clutching her bow tight.

They crept along the far wall, keeping as much distance between themselves and the door as they could, moving silently until they were as close as they dared be. Evie pulled a small circular mirror from one of her pockets—one of her favorite tools—and carefully angled it towards the room. She didn’t want to reflect light back and give away their presence, but she had to know if Krem was all right.

The storage room was crowded with discarded shields and dull swords, but through the mess, Evie could see Krem and Tallis. They were seated on a bench, their hands tied behind their backs. Five figures, three men and two women, spread out in a half-circle in front of them. Evie recognized one of them, a dark-haired elven woman who worked in the stables; the three men wore plain leather armor and seemed to be part of the palace guard. The second woman was an older human, slim and elegantly grey-haired, wearing a plain but well-made dress common among high-ranking servants.

The older woman spoke; she had been the one arguing that Krem and Tallis needed to die. “I don’t care what they know. They’ve seen me, and I’m not about to go to prison for this. Your coin is good but not that good.”

Alistair squinted at the image in the mirror. “That’s the new second chamberlain,” he whispered in horror. “Eamon was right, I need to pay more attention when people join my staff.”

“It's not your decision,” the groom replied calmly. “And I _do_ care what they know.”

A slight flash of metal caught Evie’s eye; Tallis was working to free her hands.

She whispered this observation to Alistair, who nodded. “When she frees herself, we charge in. Agreed?”

Evie nodded as she turned her attention back to the images in the mirror.

The groom helped herself to a dagger from a nearby rack, then stepped up to Tallis. “You’ve always been a disgrace to the Ben-Hassrath,” she said, twisting the dagger, letting it catch the light.

Tallis raised her chin indignantly. "Me? I'm not the one disobeying the Arishok and starting a war he never authorized."

"The Viddasala is true Qunari," the groom snapped back. "I follow her commands. I know and accept my place in the order of things—unlike you, _Athlok_. You never should have been allowed back in our ranks. You bring trouble and chaos wherever you go."

"Aw, thanks," Tallis said cheerfully.

The groom turned her attention to Krem. "And what of you, Inquisition lackey? I recognize the crest you wear. The Iron Bull's Chargers—that pathetic rabble Hissrad gathered around him to hide his true purpose."

"It really pisses you people off that the chief isn't with you anymore, doesn't it?" Krem asked, arching an eyebrow. "Maybe you shouldn't have fired him if he was that important to you."

“Hissrad made his choices.” Suddenly, the blade flashed; it came to rest at the side of Krem’s neck. The groom slid it slowly upwards, drawing a drop of blood from the spot between his earlobe and jaw.

“Now, you have your own choice to make,” she said coolly. “Tell me who else is in the palace, or lose an ear.”

Evie’s chest tightened in horror.

“New plan,” she whispered. “You wait for Tallis. I go now.”

Before the King could reply, Evie dropped the mirror, notched an arrow in her bow, and stepped into the doorway.

“Put the knife down," she called. "They’re working with me.”

Slowly, the agents turned their heads away from Krem and Tallis. Krem’s face went from stoic to alarmed; Tallis, however, seemed merely amused.

Evie held the bow steady, her arrow aimed at the groom. “So. How is Dragon’s Breath? It seems as if things aren’t going _quite_ according to plan.”

The assistant chamberlain seemed confused by her words; the groom and the soldiers, however, flinched.

_Four Qunari, but the chamberlain is only taking their coin. Interesting._

The groom stared at Evie, then chuckled, lowering the knife from Krem’s ear. “Lady Evelyn Trevelyan. Fascinating. I would not have thought the Inquisitor would make a tool of her own sister. Perhaps Her Worship is more Qunari than we give her credit for.”

“I’ll tell Cecy you said so. I’m sure she’ll be honored,” Evie said dryly. “I’m a very good shot, by the way. You should drop the knife.”

The groom did not move. Instead, she cast a glance at the soldiers. “Do not harm her. She is too valuable. _Vinek kathas_.”

Evie shifted her weight slightly, preparing to fire her arrow and run—but suddenly she felt a prickling sensation on her skin. She chanced a glance over at the assistant chamberlain, who was looking at her with a deep, intense concentration.

A number of things happened in very quick succession. Evie yelled “Mage!” and ducked behind the nearest stack of shields, seeking at least a bit of protection. She felt the magic surge, and knew her pitiful hiding place would not withstand whatever the mage unleashed—but suddenly Alistair was in the room. The King of Ferelden stepped directly into the path of the spell, and Evie felt a shock ripple through the air as, somehow, he shattered her magic.

As the mage staggered back, Tallis freed her hands and leapt up, striking the groom’s knife from her grasp. The groom deflected Tallis’s first strike—but rather than strike back, she turned and ran for a second door at the back of the storage room. Tallis swore and took off after the other agent. One of the soldiers moved as if to give chase, but just as he did Krem sprang free as well. He launched himself at the surprised soldier and knocked him out with a carefully placed punch.

Evie stood to run after Tallis, but now a second soldier was moving towards Krem, who was still weaponless. Evie took aim and let her arrow fly. It pierced the shoulder of the soldier’s sword arm, and he gasped and fell to his knees as he dropped his blade.

The third soldier looked at her and swore in Qunlat, but he took no more than one step towards Evie before Alistair was standing in his way, his sword drawn.

“Three against one,” the King pointed out almost cheerfully. “A smart man might, oh, I don’t know, surrender.”

The soldier’s face darkened. “Do not mock me, _bas. Anaan esaam Qun._ ”

He swung his sword, but Alistair parried easily, dancing back to evade a second blow from the man’s shield. “Go, find them!” he shouted back to Evie.

Evie didn’t need to be told twice. She lifted her bow and ran through the back door, up a stairwell and out into a yard adjacent to the palace. When she didn’t spot the elves right away she slowed her steps and listened, hoping to hear the two trading blows, or the echo of footsteps signaling their path.

A moment later, a dark shape by the palace wall caught her eye.

The groom’s body lay sprawled across the dirt. The elf’s eyes stared up at the ceiling, blank and lifeless, as blood spread beneath her from a killing strike to her neck.

“Blast it, Tallis,” Evie growled.

Whatever the spy had known about Dragon’s Breath would go with her to the grave. Evie wondered if Tallis’s goal had been to silence her rival, or if this was a personal grudge that could only have ended with one of these women losing their lives. She suspected it was the latter—but it was hard to tell with Tallis.

Evie searched the area for Tallis, but as she’d expected, the elf was nowhere to be found. By the time she returned to the armory’s storage room, the swordsman was dead, and Krem and Alistair were restraining the other two soldiers. The assistant chamberlain was sitting against the wall, her hands bound behind her back and her forehead resting on her knees.

“Maker’s breath, I forgot how much it hurts to be on the wrong end of a Smite,” she grumbled, seemingly to herself.

Evie shook her head in bafflement. “Why would a mage work for the Qunari? You know they put their mages on leashes, like rabid animals?”

The woman looked up at her with a disdainful expression. “What they do to their own is their business. I need to look after myself.” She narrowed her eyes at Evie. “Not all of us rose so high as your sister after the Circles broke apart.”

Evie didn’t know what to say to that, but across the room, Alistair snorted. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll have any number of exciting excuses for putting bombs in my bedroom.”

The chamberlain looked over at him, her face paling; Evie realized she hadn’t recognized the King until this moment.

Alistair met the chamberlain’s eyes and gave her a faint, unreadable smile. “I’ll ask you about those excuses later. In the meantime, I’m afraid you’ll be going to prison for the Qunari after all.”


	12. Denerim and Halamshiral

_Frostback—Qunari agents placed nearly twenty barrels of gaatlok in Denerim’s palace as part of a plot called Dragon’s Breath, authorized and commanded by the Viddasala. The bombs have been neutralized with the King’s aid._

_Dragon’s Breath calls for similar plans in capitals and palaces throughout Thedas. Recommend searching the Winter Palace immediately and communicating with Inquisition agents in other capitals. Full report to follow.—Crofter_

_*_

_Dear Your Holiness,_

_Bit of excitement here—my palace almost got blown up by some Qunari agents acting on orders from their Viddasala. Fortunately Lady Evelyn Trevelyan has some interesting friends, and even more interesting hobbies. But I’m fairly sure you knew that._

_Apparently Denerim wasn’t the only target, so you should check under your bed for any unfamiliar bombs you don’t remember putting there, and maybe tell all of those spies you don’t have to make sure that other palaces are gaatlok-free._

_Hope you’re enjoying your funny new hat._

_Alistair_

 

* * *

 

A very long day and night later, after every palace guard and servant had searched the entire structure (ostensibly for a misplaced cask of expensive Orlesian red shipped to Ambassador de Fabron), Alistair felt confident that his palace was not going to explode. He was also gratified when ravens came from both the Divine and the Inquisition warning him about a possible Qunari plot. Evidently the barrels at Halamshiral had been discovered around the same time as the ones in Denerim; their messages had probably flown past each other somewhere around the Waking Sea.

“I suppose that mitigates our complaint about the Inquisition concealing information,” Eamon said grudgingly when Alistair showed him the letters over breakfast. “Though I hope they do not mistake our alliance in this matter for a more permanent endorsement.”

“Oh, I’m sure Teagan will disabuse them of that notion.” Alistair reclaimed the two letters. His eyes fell on the Inquisition’s official seal, which brought Evie back to mind.

Of course, few things in the past two days _hadn’t_ made him think about Evie. It wasn’t every day that he met someone who could shoot arrows, carried knockout powder in half of her jewelry, _and_ laughed at his jokes.

Alistair leaned back in his chair. “Eamon, how do you think the bannorn would react if I began to, ah, pay court to a noblewoman who was not Ferelden-born?”

Eamon choked on a bite of toast.

“It … would depend on the noblewoman,” he said once he managed to swallow it. “An Orlesian would be controversial, an Antivan somewhat less so. But a Marcher would be a fairly comfortable match—although there will still be factions who oppose any foreign Queen.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Alistair said hastily. “I haven't even asked her to dinner yet. She might say no.” He thought, and hoped, that she would say yes, but Alistair wasn’t exactly an expert in these matters.

“Few noblewomen would turn down the suit of a reigning monarch. Unless you’re considering someone who has powerful ties in her own right.” Eamon paused, then sighed heavily. “We’re talking about Lady Evelyn, aren’t we.”

“And if we are?”

Eamon looked at him seriously. “Alistair, the Inquisition is not exactly popular among the bannorn right now. If Cecily Trevelyan remains as Inquisitor, paying court to Lady Evelyn would alarm many of your subjects. They would wonder, quite fairly, whether their potential Queen served Ferelden’s interests or her sister’s.”

Alistair drummed his fingers against the desk. “Ah.” It had been the answer he expected, but not the one he’d hoped for. Selfishly, he wondered how Teagan’s attempts to dismantle the Inquisition were going.

Eamon looked at Alistair for a moment, then sighed again. “But, since you’ve steadfastly refused to consider a single serious candidate for Queen in the past decade, I think you should court her anyway.”

The King of Ferelden grinned. “Remarkable, Eamon. That’s exactly what I was going to suggest.”

 

* * *

 

Alistair was very happy to find Evie in the first place he looked—her chambers. The Inquisitor’s sister was standing next to her largest window, feeding two ravens some treats and petting their feathers. A young secretary nearly fainted with excitement as she showed the King in, and looked torn between delight and scandal when Evie dismissed her to be alone with Alistair.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Evie met Alistair’s eyes and smiled warmly. “Good morning! I expected you would be busy today—I wasn’t sure if I would see you. Do our Qunari friends have anything useful to share?”

Alistair took the chair she offered. “We’ve learned the names of more agents in Denerim—not on the palace staff, thank the Maker. I was beginning to wonder if something about me was driving them to the Qun,” he admitted. “Any word from your sister?”

“Not yet,” Evie said as she sat in her own chair. “Apparently she’s gone hunting the Viddasala personally. But my secretary Maria found this on her desk this morning.” She held out a small, neatly folded scrap of paper. Alistair opened it to reveal a short note written in an uneven scrawl.

 

> _Sorry to run, little sister, but Dragon’s Breath needs to be stopped and I didn’t have time to chat about it with your new royal friend. Thanks for the help—and see if you can keep His Majesty from reporting me to the Arishok._

“Some day you’ll have to tell me just how you know this Tallis,” he said with a raised eyebrow. “What’s this about the Arishok?”

“Tallis’s work here wasn’t exactly authorized either. She has trouble with the part of the Qun where you follow orders.”

Alistair frowned. “Isn’t that more or less the entire Qun?”

“She says it’s more complicated than that. I suppose it must be.” Evie accepted the note back with a slight shrug, then met his eyes. “I don’t think I ever thanked you, you know. So—thank you.”

“For helping you stop my palace from exploding? I did sort of have a vested interest in that,” Alistair pointed out.

Evie chuckled. “For not throwing me in a cell the minute you realized I was sneaking around the palace with maps of explosives. And for working with the Inquisition, even though I know Ferelden has doubts about its future.”

Alistair grimaced a bit, acknowledging the awkward political point. “Whatever the Exalted Council decides, I think this is one of those times when it’s better not to keep secrets. And for what it might be worth, I admire much of what your sister has done. She must be a remarkable woman.”

Evie smiled at that. “I think you would like her. If you ever got to meet her in a situation that didn’t involve weddings or rebel mages, I mean.”

A brief, thoughtful silence fell between the two of them—and with a short intake of breath, Alistair took his chance. “Lady Evelyn—er, Evie. I wonder if I might … that is, I, ah, would welcome the opportunity to know you better. I don’t know how long you are planning to stay in Denerim, but—would you like to join me for dinner? Or perhaps go riding some afternoon?”

Evie’s mouth dropped open in surprise. For a moment Alistair thought he had misread everything, but then her expression shifted. A pleased smile spread across her face. “I would like that very much.”

Alistair grinned back and tried to think of something charming to say in return, but was saved by the sound of flapping wings. Another raven had flown into Evie’s window and settled in next to the previous ones. Evie arched an eyebrow in surprise as she stood and reached for the band around its leg.

Alistair shifted his gaze to the far wall; much as he might have liked to know the Inquisition’s secrets, it didn’t seem polite to read over her shoulder. “Do you have plans for the afternoon? If the weather holds I could try to keep up with you on horseback—though Krem mentioned that might be a challenge.”

Evie’s breath caught in dismay.

At first Alistair took the noise for a rejection—but when he turned his head, he realized she had not even heard him speak. She was gazing down at the unfolded paper with horror etched on every line of her face.

He rose and took an unconscious step towards her. “Evie. Are you all right?”

She looked over at him, her face pale. “It’s—I have to get to Halamshiral right away. Something’s happened to Cecy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the home stretch! This fic should (knock on wood) be on a Monday-Thursday update schedule until completed.


	13. Journeys

With help from Alistair’s staff, Evie managed to find a shipping vessel that was bound for Orlais that afternoon. For once Evie felt little guilt about dropping Cecily’s name and title. The Captain, initially reluctant to take on a passenger, quickly changed her tune when she realized that the Inquisitor’s sister would owe her a favor, and was willing to pay an exorbitant passage fee in the meantime.

Evie packed only what she could fit in a small cloth bag, and asked Maria to remain in Denerim to cancel her social engagements and make any necessary apologies. Krem, no stranger to mustering out on short notice, was ready to leave within the hour. By midday both of them were standing in front of the palace, waiting for the carriage that Alistair’s secretary had arranged for them. The vehicle that arrived was plain—sleek and clearly built for speed, but with no royal crests or ostentatious decorations to draw attention. Evie was grateful for the anonymity.

As Evie handed her bag up to the driver, Krem opened the door to the carriage. Her bodyguard put one foot on the step, then paused, staring at the inside. “You know, I think I’ll ride up front. Fresh air and all that,” he said casually, stepping down and pushing the door half-closed again.

Evie gave Krem an odd look, then slowly, understanding dawned. She stepped up carefully and peered inside.

Alistair was sitting on one of the interior benches, hidden from the outside world by heavy curtains. He gave her a sheepish smile and a little half-wave. “I wasn’t sure when I’d see you again, and I thought you could use some company. Or maybe you’d rather be alone. Was this a bad idea?” he asked tentatively.

Evie shook her head emphatically. “No. It was an excellent one. I could use a distraction.”

*

Alistair used the carriage ride to narrate a tour of Denerim for Evie—although perhaps not the version of the tour he saved for most visiting dignitaries.

“You’re making this up. The Hero of Ferelden did not rob all of those estates,” she laughed.

“Naia’s a woman of many talents. I played lookout once or twice. But all that heavy armor I wore during the Blight is apparently very bad for sneaking.”

“So instead of becoming a burglar you had to settle for being King?”

“Yes, that’s exactly how it happened. You can imagine how disappointed I was.”

All too soon Evie felt the ground under the carriage shift, from cobblestones to planks of wood; they had arrived at the docks. As the carriage drew to a stop, she looked over at Alistair and swallowed a bit, but he spoke first.

“Evie—I’m sorry about your sister.”

“The note said she’ll be all right.” But Evie couldn’t hide the wobble in her voice. “I’ll feel better once I’ve seen her myself. I—I hope your invitation is still good for a while longer. For riding, or dinner.”

“Quite a while longer,” Alistair assured her.

Evie heard two telltale thumps; their bags were being unloaded. On an impulse, she leaned forward and kissed Alistair on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said softly as the door opened.

The King of Ferelden was wearing a very happy smile when Evie slid out of the carriage.  

Evie’s answering smile was almost ridiculously bright, but she felt it fade as the door closed and the carriage slipped away from the docks. With a lump in her throat, she pulled the morning’s note from her pocket, and read it again for what felt like the thousandth time.         

> _Evie—Cecily is alive, and she stopped the Viddasala’s plan, but she’s been badly injured. She lost her left arm. I believe she will recover but it might help if you were here. Come quickly, if you can.—Dorian_  

 

* * *

 

It took Cullen only minutes to run the length of the Winter Palace, away from the fields where he had been exercising the dog and back to the room where they’d taken Cecily. It felt like hours, like each blasted hallway grew impossibly long as soon as he turned a corner.

Cassandra, who had come to find him, said nothing about slowing his pace, nothing about calming down. She merely matched his steps and followed close. “There. That door. We thought it best to bring her to a quieter part of the palace.”

Cullen burst into a small sitting room, one that had clearly not been used for some time. It was clean, but the furniture was mismatched and awkwardly placed, somehow both too small and too cluttered for the space. These chambers were far from the heart of the Winter Palace, and destined for lesser guests; no one would look for the Inquisitor here.

The Iron Bull was standing in front of the door to the bedchamber, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.

“Let me in,” Cullen gasped, catching his breath from his mad dash.

“Dorian’s with her now, seeing if there’s anything he can do with his magic. The Seeker told you what to expect?” Bull asked seriously.

“Maker’s breath, Bull. I don’t need to be handled with kid gloves right now. _I need to see my wife._ ” Though Cullen knew Bull was a friend, right now he would cheerfully have punched him in the jaw, if he thought it would have any effect.

Bull didn’t budge. “She’s awake, but hasn’t been for long. I know you’ve got questions but she might not be up to …”

“Enough.” Cassandra’s voice brooked no argument. “Let him pass.”

With a slight nod, Bull stepped aside. Cullen swallowed hard, then pushed open the door to the room.

Cecily was reclining on the bed, propped up by pillows, ice-pale and still. The left sleeve of her tunic had been torn off, revealing a stump that ended just above where her elbow had once been. Cullen had expected a bloody wreck, but to his shock, the stump was already clothed in smooth new skin—almost as if the rest of the arm had simply never been there in the first place. Dorian was sitting by her bedside, and Cullen’s Templar senses could see the magic in the room, could see that Dorian was calming Cecily, lending her battered body strength.

Cullen froze, not wanting to wake her, but Cecily’s gray eyes flew open. “Cullen.”

Her voice was clear and strong—at least, stronger than Cullen had expected. He crossed the room and settled his hip onto the side of her bed, taking her right hand and giving it a gentle kiss. “Cecy. Oh, sweetheart.”

Dorian slowly drew the threads of his magic back into himself. “I’ll leave you two alone,” he said, standing. “I’ll be back in an hour or so with dinner, Cecy. I believe I owe you at least one rematch at chess.”

Cecily laughed shakily. “I may wait on the game of chess, Dorian. But dinner sounds lovely.”

With a quick, brotherly kiss on the cheek, the newly-minted magister left the room. Cecily and Cullen stared at each other for a long, silent moment.

“The mark is gone,” Cullen blurted, cupping her face in his hand. “You’re _alive._ ”

Cecily pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling a slightly hysterical laugh. Two tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. “I’m alive,” she repeated, shaking her head. “Cullen, it—it was Solas. He said it was the only way to save my life.”

Cullen was mindful of Bull’s admonition not to pester Cecily with questions, but he didn’t need to. The entire story came spilling out—the mark’s growing instability, the Viddasala’s fate, and finally, Solas’s plan.

“I should have seen it. Should have seen _something_ ,” Cullen growled. “I never trusted Solas, but I thought—I thought perhaps it was lingering Templar fear of magic, of apostates.”

Cecily shook her head. “If anyone is to blame, it’s me. I knew him as well as anyone did.” She squeezed his hand in hers. “When does the Exalted Council meet again?”

“They broke for the day just before you returned. Things will resume tomorrow. Apparently they’re quite vexed that you chose to stop a war instead of putting on formal clothes and answering their questions.” Cullen didn’t bother to keep the disdain out of his voice.

Cecily took a breath. “Good. We need to tell Josie that our strategy has changed. We have to keep the Inquisition together.”

Cullen blinked, startled. “Cecy, that’s not—you should be resting. We can discuss all of that later.”

“No, we can’t.” Cecily gritted her jaw. “The Exalted Council is not going to wait around while I recover my strength. They’ll take this opportunity to make their decisions without me, and we need—we have to stop Solas. Without the Inquisition we won’t stand a chance.”

“I’m not entirely sure that’s true.”

Cecily’s eyes widened in surprise. Cullen was a bit surprised himself, but he barreled ahead. “Cecy, you just uncovered and stopped a plan that would have plunged Thedas into war—and meanwhile, you’ve had Ferelden and Orlais buzzing about you like gnats, making demands and questioning our every move. Much as I hate to say it, lately the Inquisition has been a distraction, not a help.”

“But the Inquisition’s resources—we couldn’t have stopped Corypheus without your forces, Cullen. How can we turn over that advantage?”

“Defeating Corypheus took an army and allies. But Solas is a different sort of enemy.”

Cecily flinched to hear Solas called her enemy, but she did not disagree.

“He infiltrated our ranks with ease, and an organization the Inquisition’s size cannot hope to prevent spies entirely,” Cullen continued. “A smaller team, however …”

“A network of people we trust,” Cecily finished, her voice gaining strength with every word. “People who will know what to look for, who can work to stop Solas’s schemes as they arise.”

“Just so,” Cullen agreed.

Cecily began to swing her legs over the side of the bed. “Will you help me find Leliana, and Josie, and Bull? We should …”

“Can that wait?” Cullen asked gently, catching her hand between his. “Just an hour, perhaps, or half that. But the Exalted Council will do nothing until tomorrow, and I—I want at least a moment to just be glad you’re alive.”

Cecily paused; in that moment, Cullen could see how tired she truly was, how much even this brief conversation had taxed her strength. She saw him notice her weariness and her lips curved in a faint, acknowledging smile; she closed her eyes in assent. “I think that sounds very wise.”

As Cecily fell back into sleep, her head resting on his chest, Cullen held her tight and closed his eyes as well.

_Maker, you have set another hard task before us. But I will perform it gladly. She is alive._


	14. The Beginning

Cecily paced nervously in the small underground room Leliana had obtained for their meeting. Every step felt odd. Losing her arm had wreaked havoc with her sense of balance; she was learning to compensate for it, slowly, but she knew it would be a while before she could move with the same ease as before, if ever.

It had been three days since she had declared an end to the Inquisition and strode out of the Exalted Council. It was not that simple, of course. The past few days had been filled with a series of meetings, with negotiations for returning keeps and arrangements for pensions and other bureaucratic and diplomatic tasks. It would be a good long while before the Inquisition was truly dismantled—but slowly, everyone at the Winter Palace had stopped calling her “Your Worship.” The Inquisitor had issued her final command.

_Is this how you imagined it, Just Cecily?_

Not exactly. But she would make do.

The door opened on silent hinges. Cecily expected to see Leliana—who was never late for a secret meeting—but instead, a cheerful Marcher accent pierced the silence. “I heard the last meeting of the Exalted Council was very exciting. I’m sorry I missed it.”

“Evie?” Cecily gasped.

“None other.” Evie was travel-rumpled and clearly tired, but she still gave Cecily a broad, merry grin before enveloping her in an almost bruising hug. “Maker, Cecy. I didn’t expect to see you standing, much less hear that you yelled at half the political powers in Thedas and then threw a book at them.”

“I _dropped_ the book. It was for dramatic effect!” Cecily protested as she wrapped her remaining arm around her sister. “I’m sorry you were worried,” she murmured after a moment. “I’m fine, truly.”

Evie pulled back and raised her eyebrows. “Fine?”

Cecily dropped her gaze and chuckled a bit. “Well. Perhaps not. But I will be.”

Her sister’s eyes flickered to her empty sleeve; her mouth tightened visibly. “It’s not fair,” she said, almost too low for Cecily to hear.

“My arm?”

“Any of it. Starting with you being sent to a Circle.”

"Probably not. But it's probably not fair that I survived the Conclave, or Haven, or Adamant, either," Cecily said with a little shrug of her right shoulder.

"Cecy, I'm trying to rage at the world on your behalf. Stop being so  _reasonable_ about it." Evie looked back at her sister's face. "Whatever this meeting is about—you know I'll help, right? You know we all will."

“I know,” Cecily said softly. “I’m lucky that way.”

 

*

 

In the cellar’s dim torchlight, Cecily looked over the familiar faces, at these people who had fought by her side for over three years. She was reminded of Haven, of how they had gathered to hear her explain what she had seen at Redcliffe. This was harder, somehow—harder to face the people who had fought to destroy Corypheus and tell them that their work was far from done, to admit that a former ally was now their most dangerous foe.

“I have no right to ask more from any of you,” she finished. “None of you could have given more to the Inquisition. Some of you have been fighting since the Blight, since Kirkwall, and without the Inquisition’s resources many things will be more difficult.” She took a breath, meeting the eyes of everyone in the room. “But I believe Solas when he says he means to end our world—and I think we stand the best chance of saving it if we work against him in secret.”

Sera was the first to speak, or more accurately, snort. “Break everythin’ to pieces so dead elves can have their stuff back? Yeah, that sounds like Solas. He acts all moral and better-than-you, but he’s really just a noble in elfy ears. Doesn’t care what happens to the little people as long as he gets what he wants.”

“That’s … apt,” Cecily said ruefully. “But Solas could easily have ignored the Qunari threat, ignored the suffering a war might cause. He didn’t. Perhaps he may yet be reasoned with.”

“And if not?” Cullen asked gently.

Cecily felt her right hand clench. “Then we will stop him. No matter what that takes.”

“You can count on the Jennies.” Sera bared her teeth in a frightening grin. “‘Specially me. I’ve wanted to kick him right in the dangly bits ever since I met him.”

Cecily laughed at that—though she still had an odd sort of sympathy for Solas, she rather liked the image Sera had just painted.

“He will be expecting us to work against him,” Josephine said, bringing the conversation back to more pragmatic grounds. “And he knows us. Even if we go our separate ways, he will surely suspect that we are in contact, and sharing information.”

“Then we’ll find people he doesn’t know.” Cecily tried to invest those words with a confidence she didn’t quite feel.

Varric grinned, suddenly. “I can think of a few folks who might enjoy saving the world.”

“As can I.” Leliana’s green eyes glittered with plans.

“Solas may find a sympathetic audience amongst the elves of Tevinter, I fear,” Dorian said. “But I know some trustworthy allies who can help us keep an eye on things in the Imperium.”

Bull clapped him on the shoulder. “Yeah, ‘bout time the Vints learned to do something useful.” He cast his eye over at Evie. “Think anyone in Ferelden might be willing to help us out?”

Evie tilted her chin up and blushed faintly. “Perhaps so.”

“We must tread carefully, and trust few.” Cassandra’s expression was calm but serious. “It will not be an easy battle.”

“No,” Cecily agreed. Instinctively, her eyes sought Cullen’s; the mixture of pride and determination in his expression as he watched her brought a faint smile to her face. “But I wouldn’t bet against us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I thought this would have an epilogue, but after thinking about it a while I really think this is the right place to end this fic -- the epilogue just repeats many of the same notes from the last two chapters.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who read this! It took a more winding path than I was expecting, and took a while to find its feet, but I had a lot of fun revisiting the Inquisition world :)


End file.
